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SILAS MARNER 


BY 

GEORGE ELIOT 

tl 


“ A child, more than all other gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man, 

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts.” 

— Wordsworth 


Edited by 

EVELINA O. WIGGINS 

t Instructor in English 
Lynchburg (Ya.) High School 



B. F. JOHNSON PUBLISHING CO. 

RICHMOND 



ATLANTA 


DALLAS 



By courtesy Houghton Mifflin Company 


GEORGE ELIOT 

( 2 ) 


m®m 


LITERATURE TEXTS| ? " 

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106 pages; price, 25 cents. 

Eliot: Silas Marner. Edited by Evelina O. Wiggins. 

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Copyright, 1917 

By B. F. Johnson Publishing Co. 
A ll rights reserved 


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7 


OCT c2 1917 

©C/.4477136 l 


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PREFACE 


This school edition of “Silas Marner” has been planned 
to meet the needs of students just beginning the study of 
the novel as a type of literature. Besides the explanatory 
notes, there are suggestive questions on each chapter. 
These questions might well be called “laboratory notes,” 
worked out from the editor’s class room experience in teach- 
ing this novel. They are designed to bring out points in the 
plot, characterization, and setting which the student might 
otherwise pass over in a first reading of the novel ; but they 
are meant to be merely suggestive, and no teacher should 
feel himself confined to them. The introduction contains a 
brief biography of the author, and a study of “Silas Marner” 
planned particularly for the student. It is hoped that such 
a simple study of “Silas Marner” as is here given will lead 
the student to an appreciative reading of some of the 
author’s other novels. The editor wishes to acknowledge 
her gratitude to her colleague, Miss Elsie V. Talbot, for a 
critical and helpful review of the introduction, and to Dr. 
H. J. Eckenrode for his careful preparation of the manu- 
script for the press. 


Evelina O. Wiggins. 


CONTENTS 


Page 


Introduction - 7 

I. George Eliot and Her works 7 

II. A Study of the Book 11 

Silas Marner 21 

Explanatory Notes 257 

Suggestive Questions . 265 

Theme Subjects : ... 272 


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INTRODUCTION 


i 

GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORKS 

Mary Ann, or, as she spelled it later, Marian Evans, is 
best known to the world by her pen name of George Eliot. 
Her father, Robert Evans, originally a carpenter by trade, 
rose to be the highly respected and well-to-do land agent on 
the estate of Francis Newdigate of Arbury Hall. 

George Eliot was born at Arbury Farm, near Nuneaton, 
Warwickshire, England, on November 22, 1819. Here, in 
the heart of this rolling midland county, forever famous as 
the birthplace and early home of Shakespeare, the great 
novelist spent the chief part of the first twenty years of her 
life. 

Her childhood days and experiences are depicted with 
wonderful skill in “The Mill on the Floss/’ This book 
sheds much light on the character and personality of the 
author. The self-satisfied and somewhat stolid Tom and 
the impetuous Maggie are real pictures of her brother 
Isaac and herself. The devotion of Mr. Tulliver for 
Maggie suggests the admiration and love which Robert 
Evans felt for his brilliant daughter. 

From her ninth to her sixteenth year, George Eliot spent 
most of her time at boarding-school — first at Nuneaton and 
then at Coventry. Coventry was a growing manufacturing 
town, and in this school and town environment George 

(7) 


8 


SILAS MARNER 


Eliot came to know many dissenters from the Church of 
England; she learned their point of view still more fully 
from an aunt who was herself a preacher in the Methodist 
Church. This aunt was reproduced in the character of 
Dinah Morris in “Adam Bede.” While she was not an 
especially promising young child, George Eliot at Coventry 
began to show signs of her great powers; she became a 
skilled musician and was noted for her clever talk. 

At the age of seventeen she took charge of her father’s 
house and managed it for a number of years. In spite of 
her marked intellectual tendencies, she felt a great interest 
in housekeeping, an interest which was maintained through- 
out life. She also spent much of her time in study, becom- 
ing' an accomplished student of ancient and modern 
languages. She taught herself Hebrew. 

In 1841 George Eliot moved with her father to an estate 
near Coventry, where before long she happened to enter 
on a friendship destined to have a profound effect 
on her development. Her new friends, the Brays, held 
advanced views on the subject of religion, and George 
Eliot turned aside from the study of languages to take up 
questions of philosophy and science. Her resulting attitude 
towards religion almost caused a breach between herself 
and her father, who was a devoted churchman, but at last 
a compromise was arranged by which she agreed to attend 
church regularly in return for permission to continue her 
studies and her intercourse with her friends. 

In 1849, at the death of her father, George Eliot went 
abroad, remaining nearly a year. Soon after her return to 
England she became the assistant editor of the Westminster 
Review, to which she had already contributed some articles. 
This position carried her to London and placed her in a 
brilliant circle of literary men and thinkers, in which her 


SILAS MARNER 


9 


own strong and well-trained mind enabled her easily to 
hold her own. In this period, in addition to her editorial 
duties, she translated a religious work and wrote a number 
of essays. 

Among the many interesting people whom she met was 
George Henrjr Lewes, a scholar and a figure of some note in 
the London literary world. George Lewes and George 
Eliot were so drawn to each other by personal liking and 
similar tastes that they finally wished to unite their lives. 
Lewes, however, was already married to a wife who had 
deserted him, but from whom he could not get a divorce 
owing to legal complications. Under the circumstances, 
George Eliot believed that the law was wrong, and in 
spite of the fact that such a marriage was irregular, she 
consented to become the wife of Lewes and make a home 
for him and his two half-grown sons. 

Their life together for twenty-four years was a happy 
one. George Eliot, great genius that she was, nevertheless 
was a shrinking, self-distrustful woman always in need of 
some one to aid and encourage her. Lewes discovered her 
powers as a fiction writer, and it is due to his stimulation 
and advice that the novelist George Eliot came into ex- 
istence. In 1856 her first effort, a tale entitled “The Sad 
Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton,” appeared in 
Blackwood’s Magazine under the signature of George Eliot. 
The author was thirty-six years old at the time and had at 
last found her true life work. Two other stories followed 
in the same magazine, and some time later they were all pub- 
lished in book form as “Studies in Clerical Life.” The 
whole literary world, with the single exception of Charles 
Dickens, was fooled into believing that a young man of great 
promise had begun to write. “Adam Bede,” which came out 
a year later, fully established the reputation of George 


10 


SILAS MARNER 


Eliot at a time when Dickens and Thackeray were at the 
height of their fame. So great an interest was felt in the 
new writer that she was forced to reveal her identity to 
keep impostors from posing as the author of her works. 

For the next twenty years George Eliot devoted herself 
almost entirely to fiction. In “The Mill on the Floss” and 
“Silas Marner” she continued to draw on her knowledge of 
English country life. In “Romola,” her most ambitious 
work, she painted Italy in the Middle Ages. It was while 
she was working on “Romola” that an inspiration, which 
she called “the merest millet seed of thought ... a sort 
of legendary tale . . . suggested by . . . having once, in 
early childhood, seen a linen-weaver, with a bag on his 
back,” flashed into her mind. It took such complete posses- 
sion of her that “Romola” was laid aside for a time, while 
the author worked strenuously on “Silas Marner,” which 
was published in 1861. “Romola” followed in 1863; “Felix 
Holt” in 1866; “Middlemarch” in 1871-72, and lastly, 
“Daniel Deronda.” 

For twenty- four years George Eliot had worked under 
the encouragement and advice of Lewes. He had been her 
business manager and critic and had stood between her and 
the world. She leaned on him entirely, and his rather sud- 
den death, on November 28, 1878, left her completely pros- 
trated. For some time she refused to see her friends, seem- 
.ingly unable to recover from the blow. 

But George Eliot’s nature made loving companionship an 
essential of life. In completing the literary work that 
Lewes had left unfinished at his death, she was thrown into 
close association with J. W. Cross, who had long been a 
friend. This intimacy resulted in her marriage to Cross on 
May 6, 1880. George Eliot seems to have been happy in 
her new relation. She wrote a friend, “His family 


SILAS MARNER 


11 


welcome me with the uttermost tenderness. All this is a won- 
derful blessing falling to me beyond my share, after I had 
thought that my life was ended, and that, so to speak, my 
coffin was ready for me in the next room. Deep down below 
there is a hidden river of sadness, but this must always be 
with those who have lived long — and I am able to enjoy 
my newly reopened life.” 

She was not destined to enjoy it long. The great writer 
took a deep cold in the winter following her marriage, from 
which she died on December 22, 1880. 

George Eliot in her day was one of the most famous and 
popular of authors. Her reputation has not been greatly 
affected by the passing of time and her place seems secure 
as one of the first writers of the English language. Her 
best novels will probably be read for generations and 
studied as models of good writing and true pictures of 
English life in the nineteenth century. 

II 

A STUDY OF THE BOOK 

The novel is a fictitious tale essaying to portray real 
life. It must have a theme, or artistic purpose, which is 
worked out in a series of related events termed the, plot. 
Plot literally means a weaving together. As some one has 
put it, “we understand by plot that which happens to the 
characters — the various ways in which the forces repre- 
sented by the different personages of the story are made 
to harmonize or clash through external action.” The sur- 
roundings of the characters — time, place and circumstances 
— form the setting. The setting of the novel corresponds 
to the scenic effects of the stage, supplying a background 


12 


SILAS MARNER 


against which the characters stand out in relief. The style 
is the author’s manner of telling the story. These elements 
— plot, character portrayal, setting and style — make up the 
novel. 

Novels may be broadly divided into two classes — roman- 
tic and realistic. The romantic novel illustrates the 
unusual, as a distant historic period, adventure in far- 
away lands, or singular happenings in an everyday environ- 
ment. The plot does not resemble the customary order of 
life, and the characters are, for the most part, unlike the 
people we meet on the street. 

The realistic novel, on the other hand, attempts to picture 
the ordinary conditions and events of life. There are no 
strange and thrilling occurrences and the characters seem 
real and often even commonplace. “Ivanhoe” is a good 
example of the romance, while “Silas Marner” is a realistic 
novel. It is a quiet tale of English country life a century 
ago, with no very singular incidents or very unusual char- 
acters. 

The Plot. A plot may be complicated, with several dis- 
tinct sets of events weaving and interweaving to make the 
story; or, a plot may be simple, with but a single series of 
happenings. The novel “Silas Marner” has two interwoven 
sets of events, one carrying the chief interest, the other 
being subordinate. We may speak of them as the main plot 
and the underplot. 

The main plot deals with the reformation of Silas 
Marner. The theme is clearly announced in the title-page 
verse : 

A child, more than any other gifts 
• That earth can offer to declining man, 

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts. 


SILAS MARNER 


13 


Effectively to develop such a theme, it is necessary for 
the author to present a character essentially good and trust- 
ful but one thrown out of harmony with life by some 
great and shocking injustice — to be brought back by a 
child to rightful living. For this reason the author begins 
the story by showing us an apparent miser, looked on with 
suspicion and dislike by all his neighbors. Yet Marner is 
true and honest at bottom, ars is revealed by the episode of 
the healing of Sally Oates and his refusal afterwards to 
play on the credulity of his simple neighbors. His distress 
at the breaking of the water jug serves, too, to indicate that 
there is still much tenderness in his heart under the crust 
of bitterness. 

Silas Marner is a generous, affectionate, sensitive nature, 
so sorely wounded by the injustice of the world as to be 
driven to seek shelter in seclusion. But one thing keeps 
alive the instinct of living in the crushed man, and that is 
the love that he develops for his hard-won gold. Covetousi- 
ness ordinarily is the worst of evils, but it is not so in the 
case of Marner, since he is not hard and greedy by nature; 
his covetousness springs from the necessity of having some 
object in life. Nevertheless, such a passion must in the end 
debase the noblest character, and Silas is in danger of 
becoming a real miser when his gold is taken from him and 
its place filled by a far better treasure. 

The loss of the gold is accomplished and the healing 
influence supplied by the secondary story. The hero of the 
underplot, young Godfrey Cass, because of his secret mar- 
riage and his fear of its disclosure by his unscrupulous 
brother Dunstan, sets a new series of events to working 
which results in the theft of Silas’s gold and the coming 
of Eppie. This last is the central event of the story and 
the true turning-point in the life of Silas Marner. The 


14 


SILAS MARNER 


child leads him back from the brink of the abyss of 
avarice to the natural and happy life of fatherhood. He 
ends by gaining a deeper and firmer faith in God and man 
than he had known in his trusting youth at Lantern Yard. 

As the story progresses, these two plots, which touch for 
the first time at the theft of Marner’s gold, become closely 
united when the climax of the main plot, Silas’s determina- 
tion to keep Eppie, coincides with the climax of the under- 
plot, Godfrey’s refusal to acknowledge his own child. 
Eppie as an inmate of Silas’s home binds the plots still 
more closejv. Finally the two groups of characters, Silas 
and Eppie and Godfrey and Nancy, are brought together 
at the close, and Silas himself announces the theme of the 
underplot, “When a man turns a blessing from his door, 
it falls to them as take it in.” 

The main plot concludes with the assurance of Silas’s 
faith in God and humanity, even though he realizes that 
the unjust accusation which threatened to destroy his life 
can never be cleared away. At the end of the underplot 
Godfrey declares that he will not stand in the way of 
Eppie’s happiness and allows her to stay with those who 
have chosen her and whom she has chosen. The curtain 
falls on Silas and Eppie rewarded for their loving faithful- 
ness and Godfrey understanding that his disappointment is 
the punishment of his long-past sin. 

The plot of “Silas Marner” is a model of the simple type 
of plot. Every incident in the novel, even the smallest, 
serves to develop the theme and bring the story to its con- 
clusion. Nothing could be left out without marring the 
entire design of the book. The fact that everything blends 
to form the whole is the test of the high excellence of the 
plot. Many other great authors have used faintly developed 
plots or have written stories without them, and this has 


SILAS MARNE R 


15 


often hurt their fame. Dickens’ “Pickwick Papers” is an 
example of a plotless novel which has survived solely 
because of the supreme genius with which the author drew 
his characters. 

Portrayal of Characters. As we have seen in examining 
the plot, Silas Marner, the principal character, is in reality 
a very tender-hearted, confiding man. The circumstances 
of his life are narrow. He is an ignorant man, a linen- 
weaver by trade, belonging to a small dissenting sect — that 
is, to one of the many religious bodies, or churches, which 
have no connection with the Church of England. With his 
faith in God and man entirely broken, he leads the life of 
a miser for fifteen years. But Marner has no real greed; 
he loves gold simply because it is difficult to get — an object 
for the intense labor which alone makes life endurable to 
him. He is a kindly, domestic man, intended by nature to 
be the father of a family, and when fate at last sends a 
child to his door he begins to fulfill his destiny. He 
entirely forgets his lost gold, something no real miser could 
ever do, and finds a great, if simple, happiness in caring 
for the infant as father and mother in one. 

In the scene where Godfrey wishes to take Eppie from 
him, Silas rises to the height of his character development. 
We know from all that has gone before what he will do — 
what he must do. He offers to sacrifice himself for Eppie’s 
good; it is the natural act of a man so deeply loving and 
unselfish. 

While Eppie is the chief instrument of Silas’s regenera- 
tion, the kind and neighborly Dolly Winthrop also helps, 
and the character of this “comfortable woman” deserves a 
careful study. Her simple trust in “Them as knows better 
nor we do” and the faith which leads her to put letters 


16 


SILAS MARNER 


“with a good meaning” on her lard cakes arouse a sympathy 
which is almost envious. We feel that she is blessed. 

In the under-plot. Squire Cass is the typical easy-going, 
irascible English country gentleman and Godfrey is a typi- 
cal heir. He has been brought up so badly that it is no 
wonder that he turns out to be a somewhat hesitating and 
unsatisfactory character until he finally redeems himself 
under the sweet and uplifting influence of Nancy. He is 
fine in body but weak in will, desirous of doing right but 
led into wrong. Uneducated, undisciplined, unfitted to 
make his way in tjie world, he finds himself in danger of 
being disinherited and thrown on his own resources. His 
folly has brought him into peril of shipwreck and he knows 
no way of saving himself. He is a worshipper of chance, 
hoping against hope that some lucky accident will enable 
him to escape from a situation due to his own weakness. 
Though there is much in Godfrey to win our sympathy, he 
is really an unstable character, swayed at first by his 
brother Duns tan and later by Nancy. 

Nancy is an interesting study of a type of girl more 
frequently found a few generations back than today. She 
stands out in delightful contrast to her blunt, homely sister 
Priscilla, who takes us from the plot itself to the setting. 
Here we begin to study some of the delightful background 
characters not essential to the movement of the plot and yet 
essential to the story. Among them are Mr. Macey, the 
village sage, and Mr. Tookey, his humble but aspiring 
understudy; Mr. Lundy, the disciple of peace; Mr. Snell, 
the neutral; Mr. Dowlas, the firm upholder of the negative; 
the pleasant rector, and the village doctor. 

Setting. It is evident that such a Story as “Silas Marner” 
is largely' dependent on the setting for its effect. The plot, 


SILAS MARNER 


17 


while perfectly worked out, is undramatic and the chief 
characters are seldom shown under the influence of power- 
ful emotions. It is the perfect portrayal of the environment 
of the main characters which makes “Silas Marner” one 
of the first novels in the English language. We are carried 
right to the heart of England in the Napoleonic era. The 
village of Raveloe, “nestled in a snug, well-wooded hollow, 
quite an hour’s journey on horseback from any turnpike, 
while it was never reached by the vibrations of the coach- 
horn, or of public opinion,” is taken bodily from English 
life and set down in a story. 

The setting of “Silas Marner” is peculiarly interesting 
because it presents a world which has long since passed 
away. At the beginning of the nineteenth century England 
was in the period of change from the life of former cen- 
turies to modern existence. The people George Eliot 
describes belong to the past. They believe in ghosts and 
evil spirits and are always on the look-out for supernatural 
manifestations. It is this quaint, old-fashioned life, so 
wonderfully described, which gives “Silas Marner” its 
charm and its high place as literature. 

Style. Before concluding the study of the novel, we 
should consider the question of the author’s style. The 
style is the manner in which the story is told ; it is the form 
in which the plot is worked out and the characters are 
presented. It concerns the selection of words, the ordering 
of sentences, the arrangement of events. A writer such 
as Scott, for instance, uses very different words and very 
different groupings of words in sentences from an author of 
the type of George Eliot. Each great author has a way of 
writing peculiarly his own, his distinctive style. 

“Silas Marner” has received high praise as a work of 


18 


SILAS MARNER 


literary art. Ever}dhing seems to be done and said in just 
the right way. The main events of the story are led up to 
with great care; the author leaves nothing unexplained. 
Thus she takes pains to tell us why Silas Marner happened 
to have his door open on the night of the robbery. In Chap- 
ter IV she gives a remarkable study in unity : the high water 
in the stone pits, the repeated allusions to the muddy, slip- 
pery road, the dense mist, Silas’s absence from the cottage, 
the arguments Dunsey uses to support the robbery, the 
darkness which swallows him when he leaves the cottage 
weighted with the two bags of gold —all suggest and lend 
probability to the temporarily hidden climax. In the same 
careful way she prepares us for the discovery of Dunsey’s 
body by having a good reason for the draining of the stone 
pits, and she describes the whip which Dunsey carries 
because it is one of the means of identifying the body. 

George Eliot is very happy in her use of conversation. 
Her characters talk in a life-like manner; they seem 
to be real human beings. This is true both of the people of 
position, like Godfrey Cass and Nancy, and the poor men 
chattering in the Rainbow Inn. 

As regards what George Eliot herself says — her descrip- 
tions and comments — there is a difference of opinion. Her 
style has often been called heavy. She employs many long 
words and hard terms, especially when she is explaining 
the motives of the characters and passing judgment on them. 
But when George Eliot simplv tells what happens, or nar- 
rates, her style is often beautiful ; her sentences flow smooth- 
ly and naturally. It is to be regretted that she did not 
always write simply, for few English writers have had a 
greater talent for strong, expressive prose. 

In “Silas Marner,” the author’s style is seen at its best. 
George Eliot’s didactic — that is, preaching — habit, which 


SILAS MARNER 


19 


became so emphasized in some of her later books, is much 
less marked in “Silas Marner.” In this work her teaching is 
brilliant. She is constantly summing up the lessons of 
some situation or the follies of some character in words 
that remain forever impressed on the memory. Attention is 
called in the notes to some of these crisp, clear expressions. 

“Silas Marner” is delightfully flavored with George 
Eliot’s dry humor. This has been discussed in treating the 
portrayal of character. The humor is so delicate and subtle, 
as in the case of Dolly Winthrop, that it sometimes leaves 
us undecided whether to give it the tribute of a tear or 
smile. Yet along w r ith the pathos the humor is there, not 
the broad humor of the Sunday supplement but a humor 
peculiar and refined. If the student does not at first ap- 
preciate it, let him remember and apply Mr. Macey’s argu- 
ment against the farrier’s seeking the constable in an official 
capacity: “For a fly’s a fly, though it may be a hoss-fly.” 



SILAS MARNER: 


THE WEAVER OF RAVELOE. 


CHAPTER I 

In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily 
in the farmhouses — and even great ladies, clothed in silk 
and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of 
polished oak — there might be seen, in districts far away 
among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, cer- 
tain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the 
brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a dis- 
inherited race. The shepherd’s dog barked fiercely when 
one of these alien-looking men appeared on the upland, 
dark against the early winter sunset; for what dog likes 
a figure bent under a heavy bag? — and these pale men 
rarely stirred abroad without that mysterious burden. 
The shepherd himself, though he had good reason to 
believe that the bag held nothing but flaxen thread, or 
else the long rolls of strong linen spun from that thread, 
was not quite sure that this trade of weaving, indispens- 
able though it was, could be carried on entirely without 
the help of the Evil One. In that far-off time supersti- 
tion clung easily round every person or thing that was 
at all unwonted, or even intermittent and occasional 
merely, like the visits of the pedlar or the knife-grinder. 
No one knew where wandering men had their homes or 

(21 ) 


5 

10 

15 

20 


22 


SILAS MARNE R 


their origin; and how was a man to be explained unless 
you at least knew somebody who knew his father and 
mother? To the peasants of old times, the world out- 
side their own direct experience was a region of vague- 
5 ^]ness and mystery: to their unt ravelled thought a state of 
wandering was a conception as dim as the winter life of 
the swallows that came back with the spring; and even 
a settler, if he came from distant parts, hardly ever 
ceased to be viewed with a remnant of distrust, which 
10 would have prevented any surprise if a long course of 
inoffensive conduct on his part had ended in the commis- 
sion of a crime; especially if he had any reputation for 
knowledge, or showed any skill in handicraft. All clever- 
ness, whether in the rapid use of that difficult instrument 
15 the tongue, or in some other art unfamiliar to villagers, 
was in itself suspicious: honest folk, born and bred in a 
visible manner, were mostly not overwise or clever — at 
least, not beyond such a matter as knowing the signs of 
the weather ; and the process by which rapidity and dex- 
20 terity of any kind were acquired was so wholly hidden 
that they partook of the nature of conjuring. In this 
way it came to pass that those scattered linen-weavers 
— emigrants from the town into the country — were to 
the last regarded as aliens by their rustic neighbors, and 
25 usually contracted the eccentric habits which belong to 
a state of loneliness. 

In the early years of this century, such a linen-weaver, 
named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone 
cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the 
30 village of Raveloe, and not far from *the edge of a 
deserted stone-pit. The questionable sound of Silas’s 
loom, so unlike the natural cheerful trotting of the win- 
nowing-machine, or the simpler rhythm of the flail, had 


SILAS MARNER 


23 


a half-fearful fascination for the Raveloe boys, who 
would often leave off their nutting or birds’-nesting to 
peep in at the window of the stone cottage, counterbalanc- 
ing a certain awe at the mysterious action of the loom by 
a pleasant sense of scornful superiority, drawn from the 5 
mockery of its alternating noises, along with the bent, 
tread-mill attitude of the weaver. But sometimes it 
happened that Marner, pausing to adjust an irregularity 
•in his thread, became aware of the small scoundrels, and, 
though chary of his time, he liked their intrusion so ill 10 
that he would descend from his loom, and, opening the 
door, would fix on them a gaze that was always enough 
to make them take to their legs in terror. For how was 
it possible to believe that those large brown protuberant 
eyes in Silas Marner’s pale face really saw nothing very 15 
distinctly that was not close to them, and not rather that 
their dreadful stare could dart cramp, or rickets, or a 
wry mouth at any boy who happened to be in the rear? 
They had, perhaps, heard their fathers and mothers hint 
that Silas Marner could cure folks’ rheumatism if he had 20 
a mind, and add, still more darkly, that if you could only 
speak the devil fair enough, he might save you the cost 
of the doctor. Such strange lingering echoes of the old 
demon-worship might perhaps even now be caught by the 
diligent listener among the gray-haired peasantry; for 25 
the rude mind with difficulty associates the ideas of power 
and benignity. A shadowy conception of pcwer that by 
much persuasion can be induced to refrain from inflicting 
harm, is the shape most easily taken by the sense of the 
Invisible in the minds of men who have always been 30 
pressed close by primitive wants, and to whom a life of 
hard toil has never been illuminated by any enthusiastic 
religious faith>^ To them pain and mishap present a far 


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SILAS MARNER 


wider range of possibilities than gladness and enjoy- 
ment: their imagination is almost barren of the images 
that feed desire and hope, but is all overgrown by recol- 
lections that are a perpetual pasture to fear. “Is there 
5 anything you can fancy that you would like to eat?” I 
once said to an old laboring man, who was in his last ill- 
ness, and who had refused all the food his wife had 
offered him. “No,” he answered, “I’ve never been used 
to nothing but common victual, and I can’t eat that.” 
10 Experience had bred no fancies in him that could raise 
the phantasm of appetite. 

And Raveloe was a village where many of the old 
echoes lingered, undrowned by new voices. Not that it 
was one of those barren parishes lying on the outskirts 
15 of civilization — inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly 
scattered shepherds : on the contrary, it lay in the rich 
central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry Eng- 
land, and held farms which, speaking from a spiritual 
point of view, paid highly desirable tithes. But it was 
20 nestled in a snug well- wooded hollow, quite an hour’s 
journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was 
never reached by the vibrations of the coach-horn or of 
public opinion. It was an important-looking Village, 
with a fine old church and large churchyard in the heart 
25 of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone homesteads, 
with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks, 
standing close upon the road, and lifting more imposing 
fronts than the rectory, which peeped from among the 
trees on the other side of the churchyard, — a village 
30 which showed at once the summits of its social life, and 
told the practised eye that there was no great park and 
manor-house in the vicinity, but that there were several 
chiefs in Raveloe who could farm badly quite at their 


SILAS MARNER 


25 


ease, drawing enough money from their bad farming, in 
those war times, to live in a rollicking fashion, and keep 
a jolly Christmas, Whitsun, and Easter tide. 

It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come 
to Raveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man, 
with prominent, short-sighted brown eyes, whose ap- 
pearance would have had nothing strange for people of 
average culture and experience, but for the villagers 
near whom he had come to settle it had mysterious pecu-^ 
liarities which corresponded with the exceptional nature 
of his occupation and his advent from an unknown region 
called “North’ard.” So had his way of life: — he invited 
no comer to step across his doorsill, and he never strolled 
into the village to drink a pint at the Rainbow, or to 
gossip at the wheelwright’s ; he sought no man or woman, 
save for the purposes of his calling, or in order to supply 
himself with necessaries ; and it was soon clear to the 
Raveloe lasses that he would never urge one of them to 
accept him against her will — quite as if he had heard 
them declare that they would never marry a dead man 
come to life again. 

This view of Marner’s personality was not without 
another ground than his pale face and unexampled eyes; 
for Jem Rodney, the mole-catcher, averred that, one 
evening as he was returning homeward, he saw Silas 
Marner leaning against a stile with a heavy bag on his 
back, instead of resting the bag on the stile as a man 
in his senses would have done ; and that, on coming up to 
him, he saw that Marner’s eyes were set like a dead 
man’s and he spoke to him, and shook him, and his limbs 
were stiff, and his hands clutched the bag as if they’d 
been made of iron; but just as he had made up his mind 
that the weaver was dead, he came all right again, like, 


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as you might say, in the winking of an eye, and said 
“Good-night,” and walked off. All this Jem swore he 
had seen, more by token that it was the very day he had 
been mole-catching on Squire Cass’s land, down by the 
5 old saw-pit. Some said Marner must have been in a 
“fit,” a word which seemed to explain things otherwise 
incredible; but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of 
the parish, shook his head, and asked if anybody was 
ever known to go off in a fit and not fall down. A fit 
10 was a stroke, wasn’t it? and it was in the nature of a 
stroke to partly take away the use of a man’s limbs and 
throw him on the parish, if he’d got no children to look 
to. No, no; it was no stroke that would let a man stand 
on his legs, like a horse between the shafts, and then- 
15' walk off as soon as you can say “Gee !” But there might 
be such a thing as a man’s soul being loose from his body 
and going out and in, like a bird out of its nest and 
back; and that was how folks got overwise, for they 
went to school in this shell-less state to those who could 
20 teach them more than their neighbors could learn with 
their five senses and the parson. And where did Master 
Marner get his knowledge of herbs from — and charms, 
too, if he liked to give them away? Jem Rodney’s story 
was no more than what might have been expected by any- 
25 body who had seen how Marner had cured Sally Oates, 
and made her sleep like a baby, when her heart had been 
beating enough to burst her body for two months and 
more, while she had been under the doctor’s care. He 
might cure more folks if he would; but he was worth 
30 speaking fair, if it was only to keep him from doing you 
a mischief. 

It was partly to this vague fear that Marner was 
indebted for protecting him from the persecution that 


SILAS MARNER 


27 


his singularities might have drawn upon him, but still 
more to the fact that, the old linen-weaver in the neigh- 
boring parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft 
made him a highly welcome settler to the richer house- 
wives of the district, and even to the more provident 
cottagers, who had their little stock of yarn at the 
year’s end. Their sense of his usefulness would have 
counteracted any repugnance or suspicion which was 
not confirmed by a deficiency in the quality or the 
tale of the cloth he wove for them. And the years 
had rolled on without producing any change in the im- 
pressions of the neighbors concerning Marner, except 
the change from novelty to habit. At the end of fif- 
teen years the Raveloe men said just the same things 
about Silas Marner as at the beginning; they did not 
say them quite so often, but they believed them much 
more strongly when they did say them. There was 
only one important addition which the years had 
brought: it was, that Master Marner had laid by a 
fine sight of money somewhere, and that he could buy 
up “bigger men” than himself. 

But while opinion concerning him had remained 
nearly stationary, and his daily habits had presented 
scarcely any visible change, Marner’s inward life had 
been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every 
fervid nature must be when it has fled, or been con- 
demned, to solitude. His life, before he came to 
Raveloe, had been filled with the movement, the men- 
tal activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that 
day as in this, marked the life of an artisan early 
incorporated in a narrow religious sect, where the 
poorest layman has the chance of distinguishing him- 
self by gifts of speech, and has, at the very least, the 


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weight of a silent voter in the government of his com- 
munity. Marner was highly thought of in that little 
hidden world, known to itself as the church assembling 
in Lantern Yard; he was believed to be a young man 
5 of exemplary life and ardent faith; and a peculiar in- 
terest had been centred in him ever since he had fallen, 
at a prayer-meeting, into a mysterious rigidity and 
suspension of consciousness, which, lasting for an hour 
or more, had been mistaken for death. To have sought 
a medical explanation for this phenomenon would have 
been held by Silas himself, as Well as by his minister 
and fellow-members, a wilful self-exclusion from the 
spiritual significance that might lie therein. Silas was 
evidently a brother selected for a peculiar discipline; 
25 and though the effort to interpret this discipline was 
discouraged by the absence, on his part, of any spir- 
itual vision during his outward trance, yet it was be- 
lieved by himself and others that its effect was seen in 
an accession of light and fervor. A less truthful man 
20 than he might have been tempted into the subsequent 
creation of a vision in the form of resurgent memory; 
a less sane man might have believed in such a crea- 
tion; but Silas was both sane and honest, though, as 
with many honest and fervent men, culture had not 
25 defined any channels for his sense of mystery, and so 
it spread itself over the proper pathway of inquiry and 
knowledge. He had inherited from his mother some 
acquaintance with medicinal herbs and their prepara- 
tion, — a little store of wisdom which she had imparted 
30 to him as a solemn bequest, — but of late years he had 
had doubts about the lawfulness of applying this know- 
ledge, believing that herbs could have no efficacy with- 
out prayer, and that prayer might suffice without 


SILAS MARNER 


29 


herbs; so that his inherited delight to wander through 
the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion and colts- 
foot began to wear to him the character of a temptation. 

Among the members of his church there was one 
young man, a little older than himself, with whom he 
had long lived in such close friendship that it was the 
custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to call them 
David and Jonathan. The real name of the friend 
was William Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a 
shining instance of youthful piety, though somewhat 
given to over-severity towards weaker brethren, and 
to be so dazzled by his own light as to hold himself 
wiser than his teachers. But whatever blemishes others 
might discern in William, to his friend’s mind he was 
faultless ; for Marner had one of those impressible self- 
doubting natures which, at an inexperienced age, ad- 
mire imperativeness and lean on contradiction. The 
expression of trusting simplicity in Marner’s face, 
heightened by that absence of special observation, 
that defenceless, deer-like gaze which belongs to large 
prominent eyes, was strongly contrasted by the self- 
complacent suppression of inward triumph that lurked 
in the narrow slanting eyes and compressed lips of 
William Dane. One of the most frequent topics of 
conversation between the two friends was Assurance 
of salvation: Silas confessed that he could never arrive 
at anything higher than hope mingled with fear, and 
listened with longing wonder when William declared 
that he had possessed unshaken assurance ever since, 
in the period of his conversion, he had dreamed that 
he saw the words “calling and election sure” standing 
by themselves on a white page in the open Bible. Such 
colloquies have occupied many a pair of pale-faced 


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SILAS MARNER 


weavers, whose unnurtured souls have been like young 
winged things, fluttering forsaken in the twilight. 

It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the 
friendship had suffered no chill even from his forma- 
5 tion of another attachment of a closer kind. For some 
months he had been engaged to a young servant woman, 
waiting only for a little increase to their mutual sav- 
ings in order to their marriage; and it was a great 
delight to him that Sarah did not object to William’s 
10 occasional presence in their Sunday interviews. It 
was at this point in their history that Silas’s cataleptic 
fit occurred during the prayer-meeting; and amidst the 
various queries and expressions of interest addressed to 
him by his fellow-members, William’s suggestion alone 
15 jarred with the general sympathy towards a brother 
thus singled out for special dealings. He observed 
that, to him, this trance looked more like a visitation 
of Satan than a proof of divine favor, and exhorted 
his friend to see that he hid no accursed thing within 
20 his soul. Silas, feeling bound to accept rebuke and 
admonition as a brotherly office, felt no resentment, 
but only pain, at his friend’s doubts concerning him; 
and to this was soon added some anxiety at the per- 
ception that Sarah’s manner towards him began to ex- 
25 hibit a strange fluctuation between an effort at an in- 
creased manifestation of regard and involuntary signs 
of shrinking and dislike. He asked her if she wished 
to break off their engagement; but she denied this : 
their engagement was known to the church, and had 
30 been recognized in the prayer-meetings; it could not 
be broken off without strict investigation, and Sarah 
could render no reason that would be sanctioned by the 
feeling of the community. At this time the senior 


SILAS MARNER 


31 


deacon was taken dangerously ill, and, being a child- 
less widower, he w ? as tended night and day by some 
of the younger brethren or sisters. Silas frequently 
took his turn in the night- watching with William, the 
one relieving the other at two in the morning. The 
old man, contrary to expectation, seemed to be on the 
way to recovery, when one night Silas, sitting up by 
his bedside, observed that his usual audible breath- 
ing had ceased. The candle was burning low, and 
he had to lift it to see the patient’s face distinctly. 
Examination convinced him that the deacon was dead 
— had been dead some time, for the limbs were rigid. 
Silas asked himself if he had been asleep, and looked 
at the clock: it was already four in the morning. How 
was it that William had not come? In much anxiety 
he went to seek for help, and soon there were several 
friends assembled in the house, the minister among 
them, while Silas went aw ay to his work, wishing he 
could have met William to know the reason of his non- 
appearance. But at six o’clock, as he was thinking of 
going to seek his friend, William came, and with him the 
minister. They came to summon him to Lantern Yard, 
to meet the church members there; and to his inquiry 
concerning the cause of the summons the only reply was, 
“You will hear.” Nothing further was said until Silas 
was seated in the vestry, in front of the minister, with 
the eyes of those who to him represented God’s people 
fixed solemnly upon him. Then the minister, taking out 
a pocket-knife, showed it to Silas, and asked him if he 
knew where he had left that knife? Silas said he did 
not know that he had left it anywhere out of his own 
pocket — but he was trembling at this strange interroga- 
tion. He was then exhorted not to hide his sin, but to 


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confess and repent. The knife had been found in the 
bureau by the departed deacon’s bedside — found in the 
place where the little bag of church money had lain, 
which the minister himself had seen the day before. 
5 Some hand had removed that'bag; and whose hand could 
it be, if not that of the man to whom the knife belonged? 
For some time Silas was mute with astonishment; then 
he said, “God will clear me: I know nothing about the 
knife being there, or the money being gone. Search me 
10 and my dwelling: you will find nothing but three pound 
five of my own savings, which William Dane knows I 
have had these six months.” At this William groaned, 
but the minister said, “The proof is heavy against you, 
brother Marner. The money was taken in the night last 
15 past, and no man was with our departed brother but you, 
for William Dane declares to us that he was hindered by 
sudden sickness from going to take his place as usual, 
and you yourself said that he had not come; and, more- 
over, you neglected the dead body.” 

20 “I must have slept,” said Silas. Then, after a pause, 
he added, “Or I must have had another visitation like 
that which you have all seen me under, so that the thief 
must have come and gone while I was not in the body, 
but out of the body. But, I say again, search me and 
25 my dwelling, for I have been nowhere else.” 

The search was made, and it ended in William 
Dane’s finding the well-known bag, empty, tucked behind 
the chest of drawers in Silas’s chamber! On this Wil- 
liam exhorted his friend to confess, and not to hide his 
30 sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen reproach on 
him, and said, “William, for nine years that we have 
gone in and out together, have you ever known me tell 
a lie? But God will clear me.” 


SILAS MARNER 


33 


“Brother/’ said William, “how do I know what you 
may have done in the secret chambers of your heart, to 
give Satan an advantage over you?” 

Silas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a deep 
flush came over his face, and he was about to speak 
impetuously, when he seemed checked again by some 
inward shock that sent the flush back and made him 
tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at William. 

“I remember now — the knife wasn’t in my pocket.” 

William said, “I know nothing of what you mean.” 
The other persons present, however, began to inquire 
where Silas meant to say that the knife was, but he 
would give no further explanation; he only said, “I am 
sore stricken; I can say nothing. God will clear me.” 

On their return to the vestry there was further de- 
liberation. Any resort to legal measures for ascertain- 
ing the culprit was contrary to the principles of the 
church in Lantern Yard, according to which prosecu- 
tion was forbidden to Christians, even had the case 
held less scandal to the community. But the members 
were bound to take other measures for finding out the 
truth, and they resolved on praying and drawing lots. 
This resolution can be a ground of surprise only to 
those who are unacquainted with that obscure religious 
life which has gone on in the alleys of our towns. Silas 
knelt with his brethren, relying on his own innocence 
being certified by immediate divine interference, but 
feeling that there was sorrow and mourning behind for 
him even then — that his trust in man had been cruelly 
bruised. The lots declared that Silas Marner was guilty. 
He was solemnly suspended from church-membership, 
and called upon to render up the stolen money: only on 
confession, as the sign of repentance, could he be re- 


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ceived once more within the folds of the church. Marner 
listened in silence. At last, when every one rose to 
depart, he went towards William Dane, and said, in a 
voice shaken by agitation, — 

5 “The last time I remember using my knife was 
when I took it out to cut a strap for you. I don’t 
remember putting it in my pocket again. You stole 
the money, and you have woven a plot to lay the sin 
at my door. But you may prosper, for all that: there 
10 is no just God that governs the earth righteously, but 
a God of lies, that bears witness against the innocent.” 

There was a general shudder at this blasphemy. 

William said meekly, “I leave our brethren to judge 
whether this is the voice of Satan or not. I can do 
15 nothing but pray for you, Silas.” 

Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul, 
that shaken trust in God and man, which is little short 
of madness to a loving nature. In the bitterness of his 
wounded spirit, he said to himself, “ She will cast me 
20 off too.” And he reflected that, if she did not believe 
the testimony against him, her whole faith must be upset, 
as his was. To people accustomed to reason about the 
forms in which their religious feeling has incorporated 
itself, it is difficult to enter into that simple, untaught 
25 state of mind in which the form and the feeling have 
never been severed by an act of reflection. We are apt 
to think it inevitable that a man in Marner’s position 
should have begun to question the validity of an appeal 
to the divine judgment by drawing lots; but to him this 
30 would have been an effort of independent thought such 
as he had never known; and he must have made the 
effort at a moment when all his energies were turned into 
the anguish of disappointed faith. If there is an angel 


SILAS MARNER 


35 


who records the sorrows of men as well as their sins, he 
knows how many and deep are the sorrows that spring 
from false ideas for which no man is culpable. 

Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, 
stunned by despair, without any impulse to go to Sarah 
and attempt to win her belief in his innocence. The 
second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief by 
getting into his loom and working away as usual; and 
before many hours were past, the minister and one of the 
deacons came to him with the message from Sarah, that 
she held her engagement to him at an end. Silas re- 
ceived the message mutely, and then turned away from 
the messengers to work at his loom again. In little more 
than a month from that time, Sarah was married to Wil- 
liam Dane; and not long afterwards it was known to 
the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had 
departed from the town. 

CHAPTER II 

Even people whose lives have been made various by 
learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on 
their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invisible 
— nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows are 
a real experience, when they are suddenly transported 
to a new land, where the beings around them know noth- 
ing of their history,^ and share none of their ideas — 
w T here their mother earth shows another lap, and human 
life has other forms than those on which their souls 
have been nourished. Minds that have been unhinged 
from their old faith and love have perhaps sought this 
Lethean influence of exile, in which the # past becomes 
dreamy because its symbols have all vanished, and the 


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present, too, is dreamy because it is linked with no 
memories. But even their experience may hardly enable 
them thoroughly to imagine what was the effect on a 
simple weaver like Silas Marner, when he left his own 
5 country and people and came to settle in Raveloe. Noth- 
ing could be more unlike his native town, set within sight 
of the widespread hillsides, than this low, wooded region, 
where he felt hidden even from the heavens by the 
screening trees and hedgerows. There was nothing 
10 here, when he rose in the deep morning quiet and looked 
out on the dewy brambles and rank tufted grass, that 
seemed to have any relation with that life centring in 
Lantern Yard, which had once been to him the altar- 
place of high dispensations. The whitewashed walls; 
15 the little pews where well-known figures entered with a 
subdued rustling, and where first one well-known voice 
and then another, pitched in a peculiar key of petition, 
uttered phrases at once occult and familiar, like the 
amulet worn on the heart; the pulpit where the min- 
20 ister delivered unquestioned doctrine, and swayed to and 
fro, and handled the book in a long-accustomed manner; 
the very pauses between the couplets of the hymn, as it 
was given out, and the recurrent swell of voices in song: 
these things had been the channel of divine influences to 
25 Marner — they were the fostering home of his religious 
emotions — they were Christianity and God’s kingdom 
upon earth. A weaver who finds hard words in his 
hymn-book knows nothing of abstractions; as the little 
child knows nothing of parental love, but only knows one 
30 face and one lap towards which it stretches its arms for 
refuge and nurture. 

And what acould be more unlike that Lantern Yard 
world than the world in Raveloe? — orchards looking 


SILAS MARNER 


37 


lazy with neglected plenty; the large church in the wide 
churchyard, which men gazed at lounging at their own 
doors in service-time; the purple-faced farmers jogging 
along the lanes or turning in at the Rainbow; home- 
steads, where men supped heavily and slept in the light 
of the evening hearth, and where women seemed to be 
laying up a stock of linen for the life to come. There 
were no lips in Raveloe from which a word could fall 
that would stir Silas Marner’s benumbed faith to a 
sense of pain. In the early ages of the world, we know, 
it was believed that each territory was inhabited and 
ruled by its own divinities, so that a man could cross the 
bordering heights and be out of the reach of his native 
gods, whose presence was confined to the streams and 
the groves and the hills among which he had lived from 
his birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of 
something not unlike the feeling of primitive men, when 
they fled thus, in fear or in sullenness, from the face of 
an unpropitious deity. It seemed to him that the Power 
he had vainly trusted in among the streets and at the 
prayer-meetings was very far away from this land in 
which he had taken refuge, where men lived in careless 
abundance, knowing and needing nothing of that trust 
which, for him, had been turned to bitterness. The 
little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, 
that frustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to 
create for him the blackness of night. 

His first movement after the shock had been to work 
in his loom; and he went on with this unremittingly, 
never asking himself why, now he was come to Raveloe, 
he worked far on into the night to finish the tale of Mrs. 
Osgood’s table-linen sooner than she expected — without 
contemplating beforehand the money she would put ii$o 


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his hand for the work. He seemed to weave, like the 
spider, from pure impulse, without reflection. Every 
man’s work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to be- 
come an end in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless 
5 chasms of his life. Silas’s hand satisfied itself with 
throwing the shuttle, and his eye with seeing the little 
squares in the cloth complete themselves under his effort. 
Then there were the calls of hunger; and Silas, in his 
solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, dinner, and 
10 supper, to fetch his own water from the well, and put 
his own kettle on the fire ; and all these immediate 
promptings helped, along with the weaving, to reduce 
his life to the unquestioning activity of a spinning insect. 
He hated the thought of the past; there was nothing 
15 that called out his love and fellowship towards the 
strangers he had come amongst; and the future was all 
dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him. 
Thought was arrested by utter bewilderment, now its 
old narrow pathway was closed, and affection seemed 
20 to have died under the bruise that had fallen on its 
keenest nerves. 

But at last Mrs. Osgood’s table-linen was finished, 
and Silas was paid in gold. His earnings in his native 
town, where he worked for a wholesale dealer, had been 
25 after a lower rate; he had been paid weekly, and of his 
weekly earnings a large proportion had gone to objects 
of piety and charity. Now, for the first time in his 
life, he had five bright guineas put into his hand ; no man 
expected a share of them, and he loved no man that he 
30 should offer him a share. But what were the guineas 
to him who saw no vista beyond countless days of weav- 
ing? It was needless for him to ask that, for it was 
pleasant to him to feel them in his palm, and look at 


SILAS MARNER 


39 


their bright faces, which were all his own : it was another 
element of life, like the weaving and the satisfaction of 
hunger, subsisting quite aloof from the life of belief and 
love from which he had been cut off. The weaver’s hand 
had known the touch of hard-won money even before the 5 
palm had grown to its full breadth; for twenty years, 
mysterious money had stood to him as the symbol of 
earthly good, and the immediate object of toil. He had 
seemed to love it little in the years when every penny 
had its purpose for him; for he loved the purpose then. 19. 
But now, when all purpose was gone, that habit of look- 
ing towards the money and grasping it with a sense of 
fulfilled effort made a loam that was deep enough for 
the seeds of desire ; and as Silas walked homeward 
across the fields in the twilight, he drew out the money 15 
and thought it was brighter in the gathering gloom. 

About this time an incident happened which seemed 
to open a possibility of some fellowship with his neigh- 
bors. One day, taking a pair of shoes to be mended, 
he saw the cobbler’s wife seated by the fire, suffering 20 
from the terrible symptoms of heart-disease and dropsy, 
which he had witnessed as the precursors of his mother’s 
death. He felt a rush of pity at the mingled sight and 
remembrance, and, recalling the relief his mother had 
found from a simple preparation of foxglove, he prom- 25 
ised Sally Oates to bring her something that would ease 
her, since the doctor did her no good. In this office of 
charity, Silas felt, for the first time since he had come 
to Raveloe, a sense of unity between his past and present 
life, which might have been the beginning of his rescue 30 
from the insect-like existence into which his nature had 
shrunk. But Sally Oates’s disease had raised her into 
a personage of much interest , and importance among the 


40 


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neighbors, and the fact of her having found relief from 
drinking Silas Marner’s “stuff” became a matter of 
general discourse. When Doctor Kimble gave physic, 
it was natural that it should have an effect; but when a 
5 weaver, who came from nobody knew where, worked 
wonders with a bottle of brown waters, the occult char- 
acter of the process was evident. Such a sort of thing 
had not been known since the Wise Woman at Tarley 
died; and she had charms as well as “stuff:” everybody 
10 went to her when their children had fits. Silas Marner 
must be a person of the same sort, for how did he know 
what would bring back Sally Oates’s breath, if he didn’t 
know a fine sight more than that? The Wise Woman 
had words that she muttered to herself, so that you 
15 couldn’t hear what they were, and if she tied a bit of red 
thread round the child’s toe the while, it would keep off 
the water in the head. There were women in Raveloe, 
at that present time, who had worn one of the Wise 
Woman’s little bags round their necks, and, in conse- 
nt* quence, had never had an idiot child, as Ann Coulter 
had. Silas Marner could very likely do as much, and 
more ; and now it was all clear how he should have come 
from unknown parts, and be so “comical-looking.” But 
Sally Oates must mind and not tell the doctor, for he 
^ would be sure to set his face against Marner: he was 
always angry about the Wise Woman, and used to 
threaten those who went to her that they should have 
none of his help any more. 

Silas now found himself and his cottage suddenly 
^ beset by mothers who wanted him to charm away the 
whooping-cough, or bring back the milk, and by men 
who wanted stuff against the rheumatics or the knots 
in the hands ; and, to secure themselves against a refusal, 


SILAS MARNER 


41 


the applicants brought silver in their palms. Silas might 
have driven a profitable trade in charms as well as in 
his small list of drugs ; but money on this condition was 
no temptation to him: he had never known an impulse 
towards falsity, and he drove one after another away 
with growing irritation, for the news of him as a wise 
man had spread even to Tarley, and it was long before 
people ceased to take long walks for the sake of asking 
his aid. But the hope in his wisdom was at length 
changed into dread, for no one believed him when he 
said he knew no charms and could work no cures, and 
every man and woman who had an accident or a new 
attack after applying to him, set the misfortune down to 
Master Marner’s ill-will and irritated glances. Thus it 
came to pass that his movement of pity towards Sally 
Oates, which had given him a transient sense of brother- 
hood, heightened the repulsion between him and his 
neighbors, and made his isolation more complete. 

Gradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half- 
crowns grew to a heap, and Marner drew less and less 
for his own wants, trying to solve the problem of keeping 
himself strong enough to work sixteen hours a day on as 
small an outlay as possible. Have not men, shut up in 
solitary imprisonment, found an interest in marking the 
moments by straight strokes of a certain length on the 
wall, until the growth of the sum of straight strokes, 
arranged in triangles, has become a mastering purpose? 
Do we not while away moments of inanity or fatigued 
waiting by repeating some trivial movement or sound, 
until the repetition has bred a want, which is incipient 
habit? That will help us to understand how the love of 
accumulating money grows an absorbing passion in men 
whose imaginations, even in the very beginning of their 


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hoard, showed them no purpose beyond it. Marner 
wanted the heaps of ten to grow into a square, and then 
into a larger square; and every added guinea, while it 
was itself a satisfaction, bred a new desire. In this 
^ strange world, made a hopeless riddle to him, he might, 
if he had had a less intense nature, have sat weaving, 
weaving — looking towards the end of his pattern, or 
towards the end of his web, till he forgot the riddle, and 
everything else but his immediate sensations ; but the 
1 q money had come to mark off his weaving into periods, 
and the mone}' not only grew, but it remained with him. 
He began to think it was conscious of him, as his loom 
was, and he would on no account have exchanged those 
coins, which had become his familiars, for other coins 
jg with unknown faces. He handled them, he counted 
them, till their form and color were like the satisfaction 
of a thirst to him; but it was only in the night, when his 
work was done, that he drew them out to enjoy their 
companionship. He had taken up some bricks in his 
2 q floor underneath his loom, and here he had made a hole 
in which he set the iron pot that contained his guineas 
and silver coins, covering the bricks with sand whenever 
he replaced them. Not that the idea of being robbed 
presented itself often or strongly to his mind: hoarding 
25 was common in country districts in those days; there 
were old laborers in the parish of Raveloe who were 
known to have their savings by them, probably inside 
their flock-beds; but their rustic neighbors, though not 
all of them as honest as their ancestors in the days of 
3 q King Alfred, had not imaginations bold enough to lay 
a plan of burglary. How could they have spent the 
money in their own village without betraying them- 
selves? They would be obliged to “run away” — a course 
as dark and dubious as a balloon journey. 


SILAS MARNER 


43 


So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this 
solitude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life 
narrowing and hardening itself more and more into a 
mere pulsation of desire and satisfaction that had no 
relation to any other being. His life had reduced itself 
to the functions of weaving and hoarding, without any 
contemplation of an end towards which the functions 
tended. The same sort of process has perhaps been 
undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off 
from faith and love — only, instead of a loom and a. heap 
of guineas, they have had some erudite research, some 
ingenious project, or some well-knit theory. Strangely 
Marner’s face and figure shrank and bent themselves 
into a constant mechanical relation to the objects of his 
life, so that he produced the same sort of impression as 
a handle or a crooked tube, which has no meaning stand- 
ing apart. The prominent eyes that used to look trust- 
ing and dreamy now looked as if they had been made to 
see only one kind of thing that was very small, like tiny 
grain, for which they hunted everywhere: and he was so 
withered and yellow that, though he was not yet forty, 
the children always called him “Old Master Marner.” 

Yet even in this stage of withering a little incident 
happened which showed that the sap of affection was 
not all gone. It was one of his daily tasks to fetch 
his water from a well a couple of fields off, and for 
this purpose, ever since he came to Raveloe, he had 
had a brown earthenware pot, which he held as his most 
precious utensil, among the very few conveniences he 
had granted himself. It had been his companion for 
twelve years, always standing on the same spot, always 
lending its handle to him in the early morning, so that 
its form had an expression for him of willing helpfulness. 


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and the impress of its handle on his palm gave a satis- 
faction mingled with that of having the fresh clear water. 
One day as he was returning from the well he stumbled 
against the step of the stile, and his brown pot, falling 
5 with force against the stones that overarched the ditch 
below him, was broken in three pieces. Silas picked up 
the pieces and carried them home with grief in his heart. 
The brown pot could never be of use to him any more, 
but he stuck the bits together and propped the ruin in 
10 its old place for a memorial. 

This is the history of Silas Marner until the fifteenth 
year after he came to Raveloe. The livelong day he sat 
in his loom, his ear filled with its monotony, his ejes 
bent close down on the slow growth of sameness in the 
15 brownish web, his muscles moving with such even repeti- 
tion that their pause seemed almost as much a constraint 
as the holding of his breath. But at night came his 
revelry: at night he closed his shutters, and made fast 
his doors, and drew forth his gold. Long ago the heap 
20 of coins had become too large for the iron pot to hold 
them, and he had made for them two thick leather bigs, 
which wasted no room in their resting-place, but lent 
themselves flexibly to every corner. How the guineas 
shone as they came pouring out of the dark leather 
25 mouths ! The silver bore no large proportion in amount 
to the gold, because the long pieces of linen which 
formed his chief work were always partly paid for in 
gold, and out of the silver he supplied his own bodily 
wants, choosing always the shillings and sixpences to 
30 spend in this way. He loved the guineas best, but he 
would not change the silver — the crowns and half-crowns 
that were his own earnings, begotten by his labor; he 
loved them all. He spread them out in heaps and 


SILAS MARKER 


45 


bathed his hands in them; then he counted them and 
set them up in regular piles, and felt their rounded 
outline between his thumb and fingers, and thought 
fondly of the guineas that were only half earned by 
the work in his loom, as if they had been unborn 
children — thought of the guineas that were coming 
slowly through the coming years, through all his life, 
which spread far away before him, the end quite hid- 
den by countless days of weaving. No wonder his 
thoughts were still with his loom and his money when 
he made his journeys through the fields and the ianes 
to fetch and carry home his work, so that his steps 
never wandered to the hedge-banks and the lane-side 
in search of the once familiar herbs: these, too, be- 
longed to the past, from which his life had shrunk 
away, like a rivulet that has sunk far down from the 
grassy fringe of its old breadth into a little shivering 
thread, that cuts a groove for itself in the barren sand. 

But about the Christmas of that fifteenth year a 
second great change came over Marner’s life, and his 
history became blent in a singular manner with the 
life of his neighbors. 

CHAPTER III 

The greatest man in Raveloe was Squire Cass, who 
lived in the large red house, with the handsome flight 
of stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, 
nearly opposite the church. He was only one among 
several landed parishioners, but he alone was honored 
with the title of Squire; for though Mr. Osgood's 
family was also understood to be of timeless origin — 


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the Raveloe imagination having never ventured back to 
that fearful blank when there were no Osgoods — still 
he merely owned the farm he occupied; whereas Squire 
Cass had a tenant or two, who complained of the game 
5 to him quite as if he had been a lord. 

It was still that glorious war-time which was felt 
to be a peculiar favor of Providence towards the landed 
interest, and the fall of prices had not yet come to 
carry the race of small squires and yeomen down that 
10 road to ruin for which extravagant habits and bad 
husbandry were plentifully anointing their wheels. I 
am speaking now in relation to Raveloe and the par- 
ishes that resembled it; for our old-fashioned country 
life had many different aspects, as all life must have 
15 when it is spread over a various surface, and breathed 
on variously by multitudinous currents, from the winds 
of heaven to the thoughts of men, which are forever 
moving and crossing each other, with incalculable re- 
sults. Raveloe lay low among the bushy trees and the 
20 rutted lanes, aloof from the currents of industrial energy 
and Puritan earnestness: the rich ate and drank freely, 
accepting gout and apoplexy as things that ran mysteri- 
ously in respectable families, and the poor thought that 
file rich were entirely in the right of it to lead a jolly 
25 life; besides, their feasting caused a multiplication of 
orts, which were the heirlooms of the poor. Betty Jay 
scented the boiling of Squire Cass’s hams, but her 
longing was arrested by the unctuous liquor in which 
they were boiled; and when the seasons brought round 
30 the great merrymakings, they were regarded on all hands 
as a fine thing for the poor. For the Raveloe feasts 
were like the rounds of beef and the barrels of ale — ■ 
they were on a large scale, and lasted a good while. 


SILAS MARNER 


47 


especially in the winter-time. After ladies had packed 
up their best gowns and top-knots in bandboxes, and 
had incurred the risk of fording streams on pillions with 
the precious burden in rainy or snowy weather, when 
there was no knowing how high the water would rise, 
it was not to be supposed that they looked forward to 
a brief pleasure. On this ground it was always contrived 
in the dark seasons, when there was little work to be 
done, and the hours were long, that several neighbors 
should keep open house in succession. So soon as 
Squire Cass’s standing dishes diminished in plenty and 
freshness, his guests had nothing to do but to walk a 
little higher up the village to Mr. Osgood’s, at the 
Orchards, and they found hams and chines uncut, pork- 
pies With the scent of the fire in them, spun butter in 
all its freshness — everything, in fact, that appetites 
at leisure could desire, in perhaps greater perfec- 
tion though not in greater abundance, than at Squire 
Cass’s. 

For the Squire’s wife had died long ago, and the 
Red House was without that presence of the wife and 
mother which is the fountain of wholesome love and 
fear in parlor and kitchen; and this helped to account 
not only for there being more profusion than finished 
excellence in the holiday provisions, but also for the 
frequency with which the proud Squire condescended 
to preside in the parlor of the Rainbow rather than 
under the shadow of his own dark wainscot; perhaps, 
also, for the fact that his sons had turned out rather 
ill. Raveloe was not a place where moral censure was 
severe, but it was thought a weakness in the Squire 
that he had kept all his sons at home in idleness; and 
though some license was to be allowed to young men 


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whose fathers could afford it, people shook their heads 
at the courses of the second son, Dunstan, commonly 
called Dunsey Cass, whose taste for swopping and 
betting might turn out to be a sowing of something 
5 worse than wild oats. To be sure, the neighbors said, 
it was no matter what became of Dunsey, — a spiteful, 
jeering fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink the more 
when other people went dry, — always provided that 
his doings did not bring trouble on a family like Squire 
10 Cass’s, with a monument in the church, and tankards 
older than King George. But it would be a thousand 
pities if Mr. Godfrey, the eldest, a fine, open-faced, 
good-natured young man, who was to come into the 
land some day, should take to going along the same road 
15 with his brother, as he had seemed to do of late. If 
he went on in that way, he would lose Miss Nancy 
Lammeter; for it was well known that she had looked 
very shyly on him ever since last Whitsuntide twelve- 
month, when there was so much talk about his being 
20 away from home days and days together. There was 
something wrong, more than common — that was quite 
clear; for Mr. Godfrey didn’t look half so fresh-colored 
and open as he used to do. At one time everybody was 
saying, What a handsome couple he and Miss Nancy 
25 Lammeter would make! and if she could come to be 
| mistress at the Red House, there would be a fine change, 
for the Lammeters had been brought up in that way, 
that they never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, 
and yet everybody in their household had of the best, 
30 according to his place. Such a daughter-in-law would 
be a saving to the old Squire, if she never brought a 
penny to her fortune; for it was to be feared that, not- 
withstanding his incomings, there were more holes in 


SILAS MARNER 


49 


his pockets than the one where he put his own hand in. 
But if Mr. Godfrey did’nt turn over a new leaf, he 
might say “Good-by” to Miss Nancy Lammeter. 

It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, 
with his hands in his side-pockets and his back to the 
fire, in the dark wainscoted parlor, one late November 
afternoon, A n that fifteenth year of Silas Marner’s life 
at Raveloe. The fading gray light fell dimly on the 
walls decorated with guns, whips, and foxes’ brushes, 
on coats and hats flung on the chairs, on tankards send- 
ing forth a scent of flat ale, and on a half-choked fire, 
with pipes propped up in the chimney-corners: signs of 
a domestic life destitute of any hallowing charm, with 
which the look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey’s blond 
face was in sad accordance. He seemed to be waiting 
and listening for some one’s approach, and presently the 
sound of a heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, 
was heard across the large empty entrance-hall. 

The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking young 
man entered, with the flushed face and the gratuitously 
elated bearing which mark the first stage of intoxication. 
It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him Godfrey’s face 
parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active 
expression of hatred. The handsome brown spaniel that 
lay on the hearth retreated under the chair in the chim- 
ney-corner. 

“Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me?” 
said Dunsey, in a mocking tone. “You’re my elders and 
betters, you know; I was obliged to come when you sent 
for me.” 

“Why, this is what I want — and just shake your- 
self sober and listen, will you?” said Godfrey savagely. 
He had himself been drinking more than was good for 


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him, trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating anger. 
“I want to tell you I must hand over that rent of 
Fowler’s to the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you; 
for he’s threatening to distrain for it, and it’ll all be 
5 out soon, whether I tell him or not. He said, just now, 
before he went out, he should send word to Cox to dis- 
train, if Fowler didn’t come and pay up his arrears this 
week. The Squire’s short o’ cash, and in no humor to 
stand any nonsense; and you know what he threatened, 
10 if ever he found you making away with his money again. 
So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will 
you ?” 

“Oh !” said Dunsey sneeringly, coming nearer to his 
brother and looking in his face. “Suppose, now, you 
15 get the money yourself, and save me the trouble, eh? 
Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you’ll 
not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me: it 
was your brotherly love made you do it, you know.” 

Godfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. “Don’t 
20 come near me with that look, else I’ll knock you down.” 

“Oh no, you won’t,” said Dunsey, turning away on 
his heel, however. “Because I’m such a good-natured 
brother, you know. I might get you turned out of 
house and home, and cut off with a shilling any day. 
25 I might tell the Squire how his handsome son was mar- 
ried to that nice young woman, Molly Farren, and was 
very unhappy because he could’nt live with his drunken 
wife, and I should slip into your place as comfortable 
as could be. But, you see, I don’t do it — I’m so easy 
30 and good-natured. You’ll take any trouble for me. 
You’ll get the hundred pounds for me — I know you 
will.” 

“How can I get the money?” said Godfrey, quivering. 


SILAS MARNER 


51 


“I have’nt a shilling to bless myself with. And it’s 
a lie that you’d slip into my place: you’d get yourself 
turned out too, that’s all. For if you begin telling tales. 

I’ll follow. Bob’s my father’s favorite — you know 
that very well. He’d only think himself well rid of 5 
you.” 

“Never mind,” said Dunsey, nodding his head side- 
ways as he looked out of the window. “It ’ud be very 
pleasant to me to go in your company — you’re such a 
handsome brother, and we’ve always been so fond of 10 
quarrelling with one another, I shouldn’t know what to 
do without you. But you’d like better for us both to 
stay at home together; I know you would. So you’ll 
manage to get that little sum o’ money, and I’ll bid 
you good-by, though I’m sorry to part.” 15 

Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after 
him and seized him by the arm, saying, with an oath, — 

“I tell you, I haye no money: I can get no money.” 

“Borrow of old Kimble.” 

“I tell you, he won’t lend me any more, and I shan’t 20 
ask him.” 

“Well, then, sell Wildfire.” 

“Yes, that’s easy talking. I must have the money 
directly.” 

“Well, you’ve only got to ride him to the hunt to- 
morrow. There’ll be Bryce and Keating there, for sure. 
You’ll get more bids than one.” 

“I dare say, and get hack home at eight o’clock, 
splashed up to the chin. I’m going, to Mrs. Osgood’s 
birthday dance.” 

“Oho!” said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, 
and trying to speak in a small mincing treble. “And 
there’s sweet Miss Nancy coming; and we shall dance 


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SILAS MARNER 


with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and 
be taken into favor, and” — 

“Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool,” 
said Godfrey, turning red, “else I’ll throttle you.” 

5 “What for?” said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, 
but taking a whip from the table and beating the butt- 
end of it on his palm. “You’ve a very good chance. 
I’d advise you to creep up her sleeve again: it ’ud be 
saving time if Molly should happen to take a drop too 
10 much laudanum some day, and make a widower of you. 
Miss Nancy would’nt mind being a second, if she did’nt 
know it. And you’ve got a good-natured brother, who’ll 
keep your secret well, because you’ll be so very obliging 
to him.” 

15 “I’ll tell you what it is,” said Godfrey, quivering, 
and pale again, “my patience it pretty near at an end. 
If you’d a little more sharpness in you, you might know 
that you may urge a man a bit too far, and make one 
leap as easy as another. I don’t know but what it is so 
20 now: I may as well tell the Squire everything myself — 
I should get you off my back, if I got nothing else. And, 
after all, he’ll know some time. She’s been threatening 
to come herself and tell him. So, don’t flatter yourself 
that your secrecy’s worth any price you choose to ask. 
25 You drain me of money till I have got nothing to pacify 
her with, and she’ll do as she threatens some day. It’s 
all one. I’ll tell my father everything myself, and you 
may go to the devil.” 

Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mark, 
30 and that there was a point at which even the hesitat- 
ing Godfrey might be driven into decision. But he 
said, with an air of unconcern, — 

“As you please; but I’ll have a draught of ale first,” 


SILAS MARNER 


53 


And ringing the bell, he threw himself across two chairs, 
and began to rap the window-seat with the handle of 
his whip. 

Godfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, uneasily 
moving his fingers among the contents of his side- 
pockets, and looking at the floor. That big muscular 
frame of his held plenty of animal courage, but helped 
him to no decision when the dangers to be braved were 
such as could neither be knocked down nor throttled. 
His natural irresolution and moral cowardice were ex- 
aggerated by a position in which dreaded consequences 
seemed to press equally on all sides, and his irritation 
had no sooner provoked him to defy Dunstan and antici- 
pate all possible betrayals, than the miseries he must 
bring on himself by such a step seemed more unendur- 
able to him than the present evil. The results of confes- 
sion were not contingent, they were certain ; whereas 
betrayal was not certain. From the near vision of that 
certainty he fell back on suspense and vacillation with a 
sense of repose. The disinherited son of a small squire, 
equally disinclined to dig and to beg, was almost as help- 
less as an uprooted tree, which, by the favor of earth 
and sky, has grown to a handsome bulk on the spot 
where it first shot upward. Perhaps it would have been 
possible to think of digging with some cheerfulness if 
Nancy Lammeter were to be won on those terms; but, 
since he must irrevocably lose her as well as the in- 
heritance, and must break every tie but the one that 
degraded him and left him without motive for trying 
to recover his better self, he could imagine no future 
for himself on the other side of confession but that of 
“ ’listing for a soldier,” — the most desperate step, short 
of suicide, in the eyes of respectable families. No! he 


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would rather trust to casualties than to his own resolve — 
rather go on sitting at the feast and sipping the wine 
he loved, though with the sword hanging over him and 
terror in his heart, than rush away into the cold dark- 
5 ness where there was no pleasure left. The utmost 
concession to Dunstan about the horse began to seem 
easy, compared with the fulfillment of his own threat. 
But his pride would not let him recommence the con- 
versation otherwise than by continuing the quarrel. 
10 Dunstan was waiting for this, and took his ale in shorter 
draughts than usual. 

“It’s just like you,” Godfrey burst out, in a bitter 
tone, “to talk about my selling Wildfire in that cool 
way — the last thing I’ve got to call my own, and the 
15 best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And if 
you’d got a spark of pride in you, you’d be ashamed 
to see the stables emptied, and everybody sneering about 
it. But it’s my belief you’d sell yourself, if it was only 
for the pleasure of making somebody feel he’d got a bad 
20 bargain.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Dunstan, very placably, “you do me 
justice, I see. You know I’m a jewel for ’ticing people 
into bargains. For which reason I advise you to let me 
sell Wildfire. I’d ride him to the hunt to-morrow for 
25 you, with pleasure. I should’nt look so handsome as 
you in the saddle, but it’s the horse they’ll bid for, and 
not the rider.” 

“Yes, I dare say — trust my horse to you!” 

“As you please,” said Dunstan, rapping the window- 
30 seat again with an air of great unconcern. “It’s you 
have got to pay Fowler’s money; it’s none of my busi- 
ness. You received the money from him when you went 
to Bramcote, and you told the Squire it was’nt paid. 


SILAS MARNER 


55 


I’d nothing to do with that; you chose to be so obliging 
as to give it me, that was all. If you don’t want to pay 
the money, let it alone; it’s all one to me. But I was 
willing to accommodate you by undertaking to sell the 
horse, seeing it’s not convenient to you to go so far to- 
morrow.” 

Godfrey was silent for some moments. He would 
have liked to spring on Dunstan, wrench the whip from 
his hand, and flog him to within an inch of his life; and 
no bodily fear could have deterred him; but he was 
mastered by another sort of fear, which was fed by feel- 
ings stronger even than his resentment. When he spoke 
again, it was in a half-conciliatory tone. 

“Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh? 
You’ll sell him all fair, and hand over the money? If 
you don’t, you know', everything ’ull go to smash, for 
I’ve got nothing else to trust to. And you’ll have less 
pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when your 
own skull’s to be broken too.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Dunstan, rising; “all. right. I thought 
you’d come round. I’m the fellow to bring old Bryce 
up to the scratch. I’ll get you a hundred and twenty 
for him, if I get you a penny.” 

“But it’ll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow as it 
did yesterday, and then you can’t go,” said Godfrey, 
hardly knowing whether he wished for that obstacle or 
not. 

“Not it,” said Dunstan. “I’m always lucky in my 
weather. It might rain if you wanted to go yourself. 
You never hold trumps, you know — I always do. You’ve 
got the beauty, you see, and I’ve got the luck, so you 
must keep me by you for your crooked sixpence: you’ll 
ne-ve r get along without me.” 


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“Confound you, hold your tongue !” said Godfrey 
impetuously. “And take care to keep sober to-morrow, 
else you’ll get pitched on your head coming home, and 
Wildfire might be the worse for it.” 

5 “Make your tender heart easy,” said Dunstan, open- 
ing the door. “You never knew me see double when 
I’d got a bargain to make; it ’ud spoil the fun. Besides 
whenever I fall, I’m warranted to fall on my legs.” 

With that, Dunstan slammed the door behind him, 
10 and left Godfrey to that bitter rumination on his per- 
sonal circumstances which was now unbroken from day 
to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking, 
card-playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleasure 
of seeing Miss Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied 
15 pains springing from the higher sensibility that accom- 
panies higher culture, are perhaps less pitiable than 
that dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and con- 
solation which leaves ruder minds to the perpetual 
urgent companionship of their own griefs and discon- 
20 tents. The lives of those rural forefathers whom we are 
apt to think very prosaic figures — men whose only work 
was to ride round their land, getting heavier and heavier 
in their saddles, and who passed the rest of their days 
in the half-listless gratification of senses dulled by mono- 
25 tony — had a certain pathos in them nevertheless. Calam- 
ities came to them too, and their early errors carried 
hard consequences ; perhaps the love of some sweet 
maiden, the image of purity, order, and calm, had 
opened their eyes to the vision of a life in which the 
30 days would not seem too long, even without rioting; 
but the maiden was lost, and the vision passed away, 
and then what was left to them, especially when they 
had become too heavy for the hunt, or for carrying a 


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gun over the furrows, but to drink and get merry, or to 
drink and get angry, so that they might be independent 
of variety, and say ovfer again with eager emphasis the 
things they had said already any time that twelvemonth? 
Assuredly, among these flushed and dull-eyed men there 5 
were some whom — thanks to their native human kindness 
• — even riot could never drive into brutality; men who, 
when their cheeks were fresh, had felt the keen point of 
sorrow or remorse, had been pierced by the reeds they 
leaned on, or had lightly put their limbs in fetters from 10 
which no struggle could loose them ; and under these 
sad circumstances, common to us all, their thoughts 
could find no resting-place outside the ever-trodden 
round of their own petty history. 

That, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass in 15 
this six and twentieth year of his life. A movement 
of compunction, helped by those small indefinable in- 
fluences which every personal relation exerts on a pliant 
nature, had urged him into a secret marriage, which was 
a blight on his life. It was an ugly story of low pas- 20 
sion, delusion, and waking from delusion, which needs 
not to be dragged from the privacy of Godfrey’s bitter 
memory. He had long known that the delusion was 
partly due to a trap laid for him by Dunstan, who saw 
in his brother’s degrading marriage the means of gratify- 25 
ing at once his jealous hate and his cupidity. And if 
Godfrey could have felt himself simply a victim, the 
iron bit that destiny had put into his mouth would have 
chafed him less intolerably. If the curses he muttered 
half aloud when he was alone had had no other object 30 
than Dunstan’s diabolical' cunning, he might have shrunk 
less from the consequences of avowal. But he had some- 
thing else to curse — his own vicious folly, which now 


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seemed as mad and unaccountable to him as almost all 
our follies and vices do when their promptings have long 
passed away. For four years he had thought of Nancy 
Lammeter, and wooed her with tacit patient worship, 
5 as the woman who made him think of the future with 
joy: she would be his wife, and would make home lovely 
to him, as his father’s home had never been; and it 
would be easy, when she was always near, to shake off 
those foolish habits that were no pleasures, but only a 
10 feverish way of annulling vacancy. Godfrey’s was an 
essentially domestic nature, bred up in a home where 
the hearth had no smiles, and where the daily habits 
were not chastised by the presence of household order. 
His easy disposition made him fall in unresistingly with 
!5 the family courses, but the need of some tender perma- 
nent affection, the longing for some influence that would 
make the good he preferred easy to pursue, caused the 
neatness, purity, and liberal orderliness of the Lammeter 
household, sunned by the smile of Nancy, to seem like 
20 those fresh bright hours of the morning, when tempta- 
tions go to sleep, and leave the ear open to the voice of 
the good angel, inviting to industry, sobriety, and peace. 
And yet the hope of this paradise had not been enough 
to save him from a course w r hich shut him out of it 
25 forever. Instead of keeping fast hold of the strong 
silken rope by which Nancy would have drawn him safe 
to the green banks, where it was easy to step firmly, he 
had let himself be dragged back into mud and slime, in 
which it was useless to struggle. He had made ties for 
30 himself which robbed him of all wholesome motive, and 
were a constant exasperation. 

Still, there was one position worse than the present: 
it was the position he would be in when the ugly secret 


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was disclosed ; and the desire that continually triumphed 
over every other was that of warding off the evil day, 
when he would have to bear the consequences of his 
father’s violent resentment for the wound inflicted on his 
family pride — would have, perhaps, to turn his back on 
that hereditary ease and dignity which, after all, was a 
sort of reason for living, and would carry with him the 
certainty that he was banished forever from the sight 
and esteem of Nancy Lammeter. The longer the inter- 
val, the more chance there was of deliverance from some, 
at least, of the hateful consequences to which he had 
sold himself ; the more opportunities remained for him to 
snatch the strange gratification of seeing Nancy, and 
gathering some faint indications of her lingering regard. 
Towards this gratification he was impelled, fitfully, 
every now and then, after having passed weeks in which 
he had avoided her as the far-off, bright-winged prize, 
that only made him spring forward, and find his chain 
all the more galling. . One of those fits of yearning was 
on him now, and it would have been strong enough to 
have persuaded him to trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather 
than disappoint the yearning, even if he had not had 
another reason for his disinclination towards the mor- 
row’s hunt. That other reason was the fact that the 
morning’s meet was near Batherley, the market-town 
where the unhappy woman lived, whose image became 
more odious to him every day; and to his thought the 
whole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke a man 
creates for himself by wrong-doing will breed hate in 
the kindliest nature ; and the good-humored, affectionate- 
hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a bitter man, 
visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and depart. 


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and enter again, like demons who had found in him a 
ready-garnished home. 

What was he to do this evening to pass the time? 
He might as well go to the Rainbow, and hear the 
5 talk about the cock-fighting : everybody was there, and 
what else was there to be done? Though, for his own 
part, he did not care a button for cock-fighting. Snuff, 
the brown spaniel, who had placed herself in front of 
him, and had been watching him for some time, now 
10 jumped up in impatience for the expected caress. But 
Godfrey thrust her away without looking at her, and left 
the room, followed humbly by the unresenting Snuff — 
perhaps because she saw no other career open to her. 

CHAPTER IV 

Dunstan Cass, setting off in the raw morning, at 
15 the judiciously quiet pace of a man who is obliged to 
ride to cover on his hunter, had to take his way along 
the lane which, at its farther extremity, passed by the 
piece of uninclosed ground called the Stone-pit, where 
stood the cottage, once a stone-cutter’s shed, now for fif- 
20 teen years inhabited by Silas Marner. The spot looked 
very dreary at this season, with the moist trodden clay 
about it, and the red, muddy water high up in the de- 
serted quarry. That was Dunstan’s first thought as 
he approached it; the second was, that the old fool of a 
25 weaver, whose loom he heard rattling already, had a 
great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was it 
that he, Dunstan Cass, who had often heard talk of 
Marner’s miserliness, had never thought of suggesting 
to Godfrey that he should frighten or persuade the old 
30 fellow into lending the money on the excellent security 


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61 


of the young Squire’s prospects? The resource occurred 
to him now as so easy and agreeable, especially as 
Marner’s hoard was likely to be large enough to leave 
Godfrey a handsome surplus beyond his immediate 
needs, and enable him to accommodate his faithful 
brother, that he had almost turned the horse’s head 
towards home again. Godfrey would be ready enough 
to accept the suggestion: he would snatch eagerly at a 
plan that might save him from parting with Wildfire. 
But when Dunstan’s meditation reached this point, the 
inclination to go on grew strong and prevailed. He 
didn’t want to give Godfrey that pleasure: he preferred 
that Master Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover, Dun- 
stan enjoyed the self-important consciousness of having 
a horse to sell, and the opportunity of driving a bargain, 
swaggering, and, possibly, taking somebody in. He 
might have all the satisfaction attendant on selling his 
brother’s horse, and not the less have the further sat- 
isfaction of setting Godfrey to borrow Marner’s money. 
So he rode on to cover. 

Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite 
sure they would be — he was such a lucky fellow. 

“Heyday,” said Bryce, who had long had his eye 
on Wildfire, “you’re on your brother’s horse to-day: 
how’s that?” 

“Oh, I’ve swopped with him,” said Dunstan, whose 
delight in lying, grandly independent of utility, was 
nqt to be diminished by the likelihood that his hearer 
would not believe him. “Wildfire’s mine now.” 

“What! has he swopped with you for that big-boned 
hack of yours?” said Bryce, quite aware that he should 
get another lie in answer. 

“Oh, there was a little account between us,” said 


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Dunsey carelessly, “and Wildfire made it even. I 
accommodated him by taking the horse, though it was 
against my will, for I’d got an itch for a mare o’ Jor- 
tin’s — as rare a bit o’ blood as ever you threw your 
5 leg across. But I shall keep Wildfire, now I’ve got 
him, though I’d a bid of a hundred and fifty for him the 
other day, from a man over at Flitton — he’s buying 
for Lord Cromleck — a fellow with a cast in his eye, 
and a green waistcoat. But I mean to stick to Wildfire: 
10 I shan’t get a better at a fence in a hurry. The mare’s 
got more blood, but she’s a bit too weak in the hind- 
quarters.” 

Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell 
the horse, and Dunstan knew that he divined it (horse- 
^ dealing is only one of many human transactions carried 
on in this ingenious manner) ; and they both considered 
that the bargain was in its first stage, when Bryce replied 
ironically, — 

“I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep 
20 him: for I never heard of a man who didn’t want to 
sell his horse getting a bid of half as much again as the 
horse was worth. You’ll be lucky if you get a hun- 
dred.” 

Keating rode up now, and the transaction became more 
25 complicated. It ended in the purchase of the horse bv 
Bryce for a hundred and twenty, to be paid on the de- 
livery of Wildfire, safe and sound, at the Batherley 
stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wj.se 
for him to give up the day’s hunting, proceed at once to 
30 Batherley, and, having waited for Bryce’s return, hire a 
. horse to carry him home with the money in his pocket. 
But the inclination for a run, encouraged by confidence in 
his luck, and by a draught of brandy from his pocket- 


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63 


pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was not easy to 
overcome, especially with a horse under him that would 
take the fences to the admiration of the field. Dunstan, 
however, took one fence too many, and got his horse 
pierced with a hedge-stake. His own ill-favored person, 
which was quite unmarketable, escaped without injury; 
but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, turned on his 
flank, and painfully panted his last. It happened that 
Dunstan, a short time before, having had to get down 
to arrange his stirrup, had muttered a good many 
curses at this interruption, which had thrown him in 
the rear of the hunt near the moment . of glory, and 
under this exasperation had taken the fences more 
blindly. He would soon have been up with the hounds 
again, when the fatal accident happened; and hence 
he was between eager riders in advance, not troubling 
themselves about what happened behind them, and far- 
off stragglers, who were as likely as not to pass quite 
aloof from the line of road in which Wildfire had fallen. 
Dunstan, whose nature it was to care more for imme- 
diate annoyances than for remote consequences, no 
sooner recovered his legs, and saw that it was all over 
with Wildfire, than he felt satisfaction at the absence 
of witnesses to a position which no swaggering could 
make enviable. Reinforcing himself, after his shake, 
with a little brandy and much swearing, he walked as 
fast as he could to a coppice on his right hand, through 
which it occurred to him that he could make his way to 
Batherley without danger of encountering any member 
of the hunt. His first intention was to hire a horse there 
and ride home forthwith, for to walk many miles without 
a gun in his hand, and along an ordinary road, was as 
much out of the question to him as to other spirited 


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young men of liis kind. He did not much mind about 
taking the bad news to Godfrey, for he had to offer him 
at the same time the resource of Marner’s money; and 
if Godfrey kicked, as he always did, at the notion of 
5 making a fresh debt, from which he himself got the 
smallest share of advantage, why, he would’nt kick long: 
Dunstan felt sure he could worry Godfrey into anything. 
The idea of Marner’s money kept growing in vividness, 
now the want of it had become immediate; the prospect 
10 of having to make his appearance with the muddy boots 
of a pedestrian at Batherley, and to encounter the grin- 
^ ning queries of stablemen, stood unpleasantly in the. way 
of his impatience to be back at Raveloe and carry out his 
felicitous plan ; and a casual visitation of his waist- 
15 coat-pocket, as he was ruminating, awakened his mem- 
ory to the fact that the two or three small coins his 
fore-finger encountered there were of too pale a color 
to cover that small debt, without payment of which 
the stable-keeper had declared he would never do any 
20 more business with Dunsey Cass. After all, according 
to the direction in which the run had brought him, he 
was not so very much farther from home than he was 
from Batherley; but Dunsey, not being remarkable for 
clearness of head, was only led to this conclusion by 
25 the gradual perception that there were other reasons 
for choosing the unprecedented course of walking home. 
It was now' nearly four o’clock, and a mist was gather- 
ing: the sooner he got into the road the better. He 
remembered having crossed the road and seen the fin- 
30 ger-post only a little while before Wildfire broke down; 
so, buttoning his coat, twisting the lash of his hunting- 
whip compactly round the handle, and rapping the 
tops of his boots w r ith a self-possessed air, as if to as- 


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65 


sure himself that he was not at all taken by surprise, 
he set off with the sense that he was undertaking a 
remarkable feat of bodily exertion, which somehow, 
and at some time, he should be able to dress up and 
magnify to the admiration of a select circle at the 
Rainbow. When a young gentleman like Dunsey is 
reduced to so exceptional a mode of locomotion as 
walking, a whip in his hand is a desirable corrective 
to a too bewildering dreamy sense of unwontedness in 
his position; and Dunstan, as he went along through 
the gathering mist, was always rapping his whip some- 
where. It was Godfrey’s whip, which he had chosen 
to take without leave because it had a gold handle; 
of course no one could see, when Dunstan held it, that 
the name Godfrey Cass was cut in deep letters on that 
gold handle — they could only see that it was a very 
handsome whip. Dunsey was not without fear that 
he might meet some acquaintance in whose eyes he 
would cut a pitiable figure, for mist is no screen when 
people get close to each other; but when he at last 
found himself in the well-known Raveloe lanes without 
having met a soul, he silently remarked that that was 
part of his usual good luck. But now the mist, helped 
by the evening darkness, w'as more of a screen than 
he desired, for it hid the ruts into which his feet were 
liable to slip — hid everything, so that he had to 
guide his steps by dragging his whip along the low 
bushes in advance of the hedgerow. He must soon, he 
thought, be getting near the opening at the Stone-pits: 
he should find it out by the break in the hedgerow. 
He found it out, however, by another circumstance 
which he had not expected — namely, by certain 
gleams of light, which he presently guessed to proceed 


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from Silas Marner’s cottage. That cottage and the 
money hidden within it had been in his mind contin- 
ually during his walk, and he had been imagining 
ways of cajoling and tempting the weaver to part with 
5 the immediate possession of his money for the sake of 
receiving interest. Dunstan felt as if there must be a 
little frightening added to the cajoling, for his own 
arithmetical convictions were not clear enough to afford 
him any forcible demonstration as to the advantages 
10 of interest; and as for security, he regarded it vaguely 
as a means of cheating a man by making him believe 
that he would pe paid. Altogether, the operation on 
the miser’s mind was a task that Godfrey would be 
sure to hand over to his more daring and cunning 
15 brother: Dunstan had made up his mind to that; and 
by the time he saw the light gleaming through the 
chinks of Marner’s shutters, the idea of a dialogue 
with the weaver had become so familiar to him, that it 
occurred to him as quite a natural thing to make the 
20 acquaintance forthwith. There might be several con- 
veniences attending this course: the weaver had pos- 
sibly got a lantern, and Dunstan was tired of feeling 
his way. He was still nearly three-quarters of a mile 
from home, and the lane was becoming unpleasantly 
25 slippery, for the mist was passing into rain. He turned 
up the bank, not without some fear lest he might miss 
the right way, since he was not certain whether the 
light were in front or on the side of the cottage. But 
he felt the ground before him cautiously with his whip- 
30 handle, and at last arrived safely at the door. He 
knocked loudly, rather enjoying the idea that the old 
fellow would be frightened at the sudden noise. He 
heard no movement in reply: all was silence in the 


SILAS MARNER 


67 


cottage. Was the weaver gone to bed, then? If so, 
why had he left a light? That was a strange forget- 
fulness in a miser. Dunstan knocked still more loudly, 
and, without jDausing for a reply, pushed his fingers 
through the latch-hole, intending to shake the door and 
pull the latch-s bring up and down, not doubting that 
the door was fastened. But, to his surprise, at this 
double motion the door opened, and he found himself 
in front of a bright fire, which lit up every corner of 
the cottage — the bed, the loom, the three chairs, and 
the table — and showed him that Marner was not there. 

Nothing at that moment could be much more in- 
viting to Dunsey than the bright fire on the brick 
hearth: he walked in and seated himself by it at once. 
There was something in front of the fire, too, that 
would have been inviting to a hungry man, if it had 
been in a different stage of cooking. It was a small 
bit of pork suspended from the kettle-hanger by a 
string passed through a large door-key, in a way 
known to primitive housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. 
But the pork had been hung at the farthest extrem- 
ity of the hanger, apparently to prevent the roasting 
from proceeding too rapidly during the owner’s ab- 
sence. The old staring simpleton had hot meat for 
his supper, then? thought Dunstan. People had 
always said he lived on mouldy bread, on purpose to 
check his ^appetite. But where could he be at this 
time, and on such an evening, leaving his supper in 
this stage of preparation, and his door unfastened? 
Dunstan’s own recent difficulty in making his way 
suggested to him that the weaver had perhaps gone 
outside his cottage to fetch in fuel, or for some such 
brief purpose, and had slipped into the Stone-pit. That 


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was an interesting idea to Dunstan, carrying consequences 
of entire novelty. If the weaver was dead, who had a 
right to his money ? Who would know where his money 
was hidden? Who would know that anybody had come 
5 to take it away ? He went no farther into the subtleties 
of evidence: the pressing question, ‘‘Where is the 
money?” now took such entire possession of him as to 
make him quite forget that the weaver’s death was not a 
certainty. A dull mind, once arriving at an inference 
10 that flatters a desire, is rarely able to retain the impres- 
sion that the notion from which the inference started was 
purely problematic. And Dunstan’s mind was as dull as 
the mind of a possible felon usually is. There were only 
three hiding-places where he had ever heard of cot- 
15 tagers’ hoards being found: the thatch, the bed, and a 
hole in the floor. Marner’s cottage had no thatch; 
and Dunstan’s first act, after a train of thought made 
rapid by the stimulus of cupidity, was to go up to the 
bed ; but while he did so, his eyes travelled eagerly 
20 over the floor, where the bricks, distinct in the fire- 
light, were discernible under the sprinkling of sand. 
But not everywhere; for there was one spot, and one 
only, which was quite covered with sand, and sand 
showing the marks of fingers, which had apparently 
25 been careful to spread it over a given space. It was 
near the treadles of the loom. In an instant Dunstan 
darted to that spot, swept away the sand with his 
whip, and, inserting the thin end of the hook between 
the bricks, found that they were loose. In haste he 
30 lifted up two bricks, and saw what he had no doubt 
was the object of his search; for what could there be 
but money in those two leathern bags? And, from 
their weight, they must be filled with guineas. Dun- 


SILAS MARNER 


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stan felt round the hole, to be certain that it had no 
more; then hastily replaced the bricks, and spread the 
sand over them. Hardly more than five minutes had 
passed since he entered the cottage, but it seemed to 
Dunstan like a long while; and though he was with- 
out any distinct recognition of the possibility that 
Marner might be alive, and might re-enter the cottage 
at any moment, he felt an undefinable dread laying 
hold on him as he rose to his feet with the bags in his 
hand. He would hasten out into the darkness, and then 
consider what he should do with the bags. He closed 
the door behind him immediately, that he might shut in 
the stream of light: a few steps would be enough to 
carry him beyond betrayal by the gleams from the 
shutter-chinks and the latch-hole. The rain and dark- 
ness had got thicker, and he was glad of it; though it 
was awkward walking with both hands filled, so that it 
was as much as he could do to grasp his whip along 
with one of the bags. But when he had gone a yard or 
two, he might take his time. So he stepped forward 
into the darkness. 

CHAPTER V 

When Dunstan Cass turned his back on the cot- 
tage, Silas Marner was not more than a hundred yards 
away from it, plodding along from the village with a 
sack thrown round his shoulders as an overcoat, and 
with a horn lantern in his hand. His legs were weary, 
but his mind was at ease, free from the presentiment 
of change. The sense of security more frequently 
springs from habit than from conviction, and for this 
reason it often subsists after such a change in the 


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conditions as might have been expected to suggest 
alarm. The lapse of time during which a given event 
has not happened is, in the logic of habit, constantly 
alleged as a reason why the event should never happen, 
5 even when the lapse of time is precisely the added 
condition which makes the event imminent. A man 
will tell you that he has worked in a mine for forty 
years unhurt by an accident, as a reason why he should 
apprehend no danger, though the roof is beginning to 
10 sink; and it is often observable, that the older a man 
gets, the more difficult it is to him to retain a believing 
conception of his own death. This influence of habit 
was necessarily strong in a man whose life was so mo- 
notonous as Marner’s — who saw no new people and 
heard of no new events to keep alive in him the idea of 
the unexpected and the changeful; and it explains, 
simply enough, why his mind could be at ease, though 
he had left his house and his treasure more defenceless 
than usual. Silas was thinking with double complacency 
20 of his supper: first, because it would be hot and savory; 
and, secondly, because it would cost him nothing. For 
the little bit of pork was a present from that excellent 
housewife, Miss Priscilla Lammeter, to whom he had 
this day carried home a handsome piece of linen; and 
25 it was only on occasion of a present like this that 
Silas indulged himself with roast meat. Supper was 
his favorite meal, because it came at his time of 
revelry, when his heart warmed over his gold; when- 
ever he had roast meat, he always chose to have it for 
30 Supper. But this evening, he had no sooner ingen- 
iously knotted his string fast round his bit of pork, 
twisted the string according to rule over his door-key, 
passed it through the handle, and made it fast on the 


SILAS MARNER 


71 


hanger, than he remembered that a piece of very fine 
twine was indispensable to his “setting up” a new 
piece of work in his loom early in the morning. It 
had slipped his memory, because, in coming from Mr. 
Lammeter’s, he had not had to pass through the vil- 
lage; but to lose time by going on errands in the morn- 
ing was out of the question. It was a nasty fog to turn 
out into, but there were things Silas loved better than 
his own comfort; so, drawing his pork to the extremity 
of the hanger, and arming himself with his lantern and 
his old sack, he set out on what, in ordinary weather, 
would have been a twenty minutes’ errand. He could 
not have locked his door without undoing his well- 
knotted string and retarding his supper ; it was not worth 
his while to make that sacrifice. What thief would find 
his way to the Stone-pits on such a night as this? and 
why should he come on this particular night, when he 
had never come through all the fifteen years before? 
These questions were not distinctly present in Silas’s 
mind; they merely serve to represent the vaguely felt 
foundation of his freedom from anxiety. 

He reached his door in much satisfaction that his 
errand was done: he opened it, and to his short-sighted 
eyes everything remained as he had left it, except that 
the fire sent out a welcome increase of heat. He trod 
about the floor while putting by his lantern and throw- 
ing aside his hat and sack, so as to merge the marks 
of Dunstan’s feet on the sand in the marks of his own 
nailed boots. Then he moved* his pork nearer to the 
fire, and sat down to the agreeable business of tending 
the meat and warming himself at the same time. 

Any one who had looked at him as the red light 
shone upon his pale face, strange straining eyes, and 


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meagre form, would perhaps have understood the mix- 
ture of contemptuous pity, dread, and suspicion with 
which he was regarded by his neighbors in Raveloe. 
Yet few men could be more harmless than poor Marner. 
5 In his truthful simple soul, not even the growing greed 
and worship of gold could beget any vice directly in- 
jurious to others. The light of his faith quite put out, 
and his affections made desolate, he had clung with all 
the force of his nature to his work and his money; 
10 and like all objects to which a man devotes himself, 
they had fashioned him into correspondence with them- 
selves. His loom, as he wrought in it without ceasing, 
had in its turn wrought on him, and confirmed more 
and more the monotonous craving for its monotonous 
15 response. His gold, as he hung over it and saw it grow, 
gathered his power of loving together into a hard 
isolation like its own. 

As soon as he was warm he began to think it would 
be a long while to wait till after supper before he drew 
20 out his guineas, and it would be pleasant to see them 
on the table before him as he ate his unwonted feast. 
For joy is the best of wine, and Silas’s guineas were a 
golden wine of that sort. 

He rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on 
25 the floor near his loom, swept away the sand without 
noticing any change, and removed the bricks. The 
sight of the empty hole made his heart leap violently, 
but the belief that his gold was gone could not come 
at once — only terror, and the eager effort to put an 
30 end to the terror. He passed his trembling hand all 
about the hole trying to think it possible that his eyes 
had deceived him; then he held the candle in the hole 
and examined it curiously, trembling more and more. 


SILAS MARNER 


73 


At last he shook so violently that he let fall the candle, 
and lifted his hands to his head, trying to steady him- 
self, that he might think. Had he put his gold some- 
where else, by a sudden resolution last night, and then 
forgotten it? A man falling into dark water seeks a 
momentary footing even on sliding stones; and Silas, 
by acting as if he believed in false hopes, warded off 
the moment of despair. He searched in every corner, 
he turned his bed over, and shook it, and kneaded it; 
he looked in his brick oven where he laid his sticks. 
When there was no other place to be searched, he 
kneeled down again, and felt once more all round the 
hole. There was no untried refuge left for a moment’s 
shelter from the terrible truth. 

Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes 
with the prostration of thought under an overpowering 
passion: it was that expectation of impossibilities, that 
belief in contradictory images, which is still distinct 
from madness, because it is capable of being dissipated 
by the external fact. Silas got up from his knees 
trembling, and looked round at the table: didn’t the 
gold lie there after all? The table was bare. Then 
he turned and looked behind him — looked all round 
his dwelling, seeming to strain his brown eyes after 
some possible appearance of the bags, where he had 
already sought them in vain. He could see every object 
in his cottage — and his gold was not there. 

Again he put his trembling hands to his head, and 
gave a wild ringing scream, the cry of desolation. For 
a few moments after, he stood motionless; but the cry 
had relieved him from the first maddening pressure of 
the truth. He turned, and tottered towards his loom, 
and got into the seat where he worked, instinctively 


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seeking this as the strongest assurance of reality. 

And now that all the false hopes had vanished, 
and the first shock of certainty was past, the idea of 
a thief began to present itself, and he entertained it 
5 eagerly, because a thief might be caught and made to 
restore the gold. The thought brought some new 
strength with it, and he started from his loom to the 
door. As he opened it, the rain beat in upon him, for 
it was falling more and more heavily. There were no 
10 footsteps to be tracked on such a night — footsteps? 
When had the thief come? During Silas’s absence in 
the daytime the door had been locked, and there had 
been no marks of any inroad on his return by day- 
light. And in the evening, too, he said to himself, 
15 everything was the same as when he had left it. The 
sand and bricks looked as if they had not been moved. 
Was it a thief who had taken the bags? or was it a 
cruel power that no hands could reach, which had de- 
lighted in making him a second time desolate? He 
20 shrank from this vague dread, and fixed his mind with 
struggling effort on the robber with hands, who could 
be reached by hands. His thoughts glanced at all the 
neighbors who had made any remarks, or asked any 
questions which he might now regard as a ground of 
25 suspicion. There was Jem Rodney, a known poacher, 
and otherwise disreputable; he had often met Marner 
in his journeys across the fields, and had said some- 
thing jestingly about the weaver’s money; nay, he had 
once irritated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he 
30 called to light his pipe, instead of going about his busi- 
ness. Jem Rodney was the man — there was ease in 
the thought. Jem could be found and made to restore 
the money: Marner did not want to punish him, but only 


SILAS MARNER 


75 


to get back his gold which had gone from him, and left 
his soul like a forlorn traveller on an unknown desert. 
The robber must be laid hold of. Marner’s ideas of 
legal authority were confused, but he felt that he must 
go and proclaim his loss; and the great people in the 
village — the clergyman, the constable, and Squire Cass 
— would make Jem Rodney, or somebody else, deliver 
up the stolen money. He rushed out in the rain, under 
the stimulus of this hope, forgetting to cover his head, 
not caring to fasten his door; for he felt as if he had 
nothing left to lose. He ran swiftly till want of breath 
compelled him to slacken his pace as he was entering the 
village at the turning close to the Rainbow. 

The Rainbow, in Marner’s view, was a place of 
luxurious resort for rich and stout husbands, whose 
wives had superfluous stores of linen; it was the place 
where he was likely to find the powers and dignities 
of Raveloe, and where he could most speedily make 
his loss public. He lifted the latch, and turned into 
the bright bar or kitchen on the right hand, where the 
less lofty customers of the house were in the habit of 
assembling, the parlor on the left being reserved for 
the more select society in which Squire Cass frequently 
enjoyed the double pleasure of conviviality and con- 
descension. But the parlor was dark to-night, the 
chief personages who ornamented its circle being all 
at Mrs. Osgood’s birthday dance, as Godfrey Cass was. 
And in consequence of this, the party on the high- 
screened seats in the kitchen was more numerous than 
usual; several personages, who would otherwise have 
been admitted into the parlor and enlarged the oppor- 
tunity of hectoring and condescension for their betters, 
being content this evening to vary their enjoyment by 


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taking their spirits-and-water where they could them- 
selves hector and condescend in company that called for 
beer. 

CHAPTER VI 

The conversation, which was at a high pitch of 
5 animation when Silas approached the door of the Rain- 
bow, had, as usual, been slow and intermittent when 
the company first assembled. The pipes began to be 
puffed in a silence which had an air of severity; the 
more important customers, who drank spirits and sat 
10 nearest the fire, staring at each other as if a bet were 
depending on the first man who winked; while the beer- 
drinkers, chiefly men in fustian j ackets and smock- 
frocks, kept their eyelids down and rubbed their hands 
across their mouths, as if their draughts of beer were a 
15 funereal duty attended with embarrassing sadness. At 
last, Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral dispo- 
sition, accustomed to stand aloof from human differences 
as those of beings who were all alike in need of liquor, 
broke silence by saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin 
20 the butcher, — 

“Some folks ’ud say that was a fine beast you druv 
in yesterday, Bob?” 

The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was 
not disposed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs 
25 before he spat and replied, “And they wouldn’t be fur 
wrong, John.” 

After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as 
severely as before. 

“Was it a red Durham?” said the farrier, taking up 
30 the thread of discourse after the lapse of a few min- 
utes. 


SILAS MARNER 


77 


The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord 
looked at the butcher, as the person who must take 
the responsibility of answering. 

“Red it was,” said the butcher, in his good-humored 
husky treble, “and a Durham it was.” 

“Then you needn’t tell me who you bought it of,” 
said the farrier, looking round with some triumph; “I 
know who it is has got the red Durhams o’ this country- 
side. And she’d a white star on her brow, I’ll bet a 
penny?” The farrier leaned forward with his hands 
on his knees as he put this question, and his eyes twin- 
kled knowingly. 

“Well; yes — she might,” said the butcher slowly, 
considering that he was giving a decided affirmative. 
“I don’t say contrary.” 

“I knew that very well,” said the farrier, throwing 
himself backward again, and speaking defiantly; “if 
I don’t know Mr. Lammeter’s cows, I should like to 
know who does — that’s all. And as for the cow you’ve 
bought, bargain or no bargain, I’ve been at the drench- 
ing of her— contradick me who will.” 

The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher’s con- 
versational spirit was roused a little. 

“I’m not for contradicking no man,” he said; “I’m 
for peace and quietness. Some are for cutting long 
ribs — I’m for cutting ’em short, myself; but I don’t 
quarrel with ’em. All I say is, it’s a lovely carkiss — 
and anybody as was reasonable, it ’ud bring tears into 
their eyes to look at it.” 

“Well, it’s the cow as I drenched, whatever it is,” 
pursued the farrier angrily; “and it was Mr. Lam- 
meter’s cow, else you told a lie when you said it was a 
red Durham.” 


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“I tell no lies/’ said the butcher, with the same 
mild huskiness as before, “and I contradick none — 
not if a man was to swear himself black: he’s no meat 
o’ mine, nor none o’ my bargains. All I say is, it’s a 
5 lovely carkiss. And what I say, I’ll stick to; but I’ll 
quarrel wi’ no man.” 

“No,” said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking 
at the company generally; “and p’rhaps you aren’t pig- 
headed; and p’rhaps you didn’t say the cow was a red 
10 Durham ; and p’rhaps you didn’t say she’d got a star on 
her brow — stick to that, now you’re at it.” 

“Come, come,” said the landlord; “let the cow alone. 
The truth lies atween you: you’re both right and both 
wrong, as I allays say. And as for the cow’s being 
15 Mr. Lammeter’s, I say nothing to that; but this I say, 
as the Rainbow’s the Rainbow. And for the matter 
o’ that, if the talk is to be o’ the Lammeters, you know 
the most upo’ that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You remem- 
ber when first Mr. Lammeter’s father come into these 
20 parts, and took the Warrens?” 

Mr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk, the latter of which 
functions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share 
with a small-featured young man who sat opposite him, 
held his white head on one side, and twirled his thumbs 
25 with an air of complacency, slightly seasoned with 
criticism. He smiled pityingly, in answer to the land- 
lord’s appeal, and said, — 

“Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. 
I’ve laid by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask 
30 them as have been to school at Tarley: they’ve learnt 
pernouncing ; that’s come up since my day.” 

“If you’re pointing at me, Mr. Macey,” said the 
deputy-clerk, with an air of anxious propriety^ “I’m 


SILAS MARNER 


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nowise a man to speak out of my place. As the psalm 
says, — 

* I know what ’s right, nor only so, 

But also practise what I know.’ ” 

"‘Well, then, I wish you’d keep hold o’ the tune when 
it’s set for you ; if you’re* for practising, I wish you’d 
practise that,” said a large, jocose-looking man, an 
excellent wheelwright in his week-dfcy capacity, but on 
Sundaj^s leader of the choir. He winked, as he spoke, 
at two of the company, who were known officially as the 
“bassoon” and the “key-bugle,” in the confidence that he 
was expressing the sense of the musical profession in 
Raveloe. 

Mr. Tookey, the deputy-clerk, who shared the un- 
popularity common to deputies, turned very red, but 
replied, with careful moderation: “Mr. Winthrop, if 
you’ll bring me any proof as I’m in the wrong, I’m not 
the man to say I won’t alter. But there’s people set up 
their own ears for a standard, and expect the whole 
choir to follow ’em. There may be two opinions, I 
hope.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satis- 
fied with this attack on youthful presumption; “you’re 
right there, Tookey. There’s allays two ’pinions: 
there’s the ’pinion a man has of himsen, and there's 
the ’pinion other folks have on him. There’d be two 
’pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear 
itself.” 

“Well, Mr. Macey,” said poor Tookey, serious 
amidst the general laughter, “I undertook to partially 
fill up the office of parish-clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp’s 
desire,, whenever your infirmities should make you un- 


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fitting; and it’s one of the rights thereof to sing in the 
choir — else why have you done the same yourself ?” 

“Ah ! but the old gentleman and you are two folks/' 
said Ben Winthrop. “The old gentleman’s got a gift. 
5 Why, the Squire used to invite him to take a glass, 
only to hear him sing the ‘Red Rovier;’ didn’t he, Mr. 
Macey? It’s a nat’ral gift. There’s my little lad 
Aaron, he’s got a gift — he can sing a tune off straight, 
like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey, you’d 
10 better stick to your ‘Amens:’ your voice is well enough 
when you keep it up in your nose. It’s your inside as 
isn’t right made for music: it’s no better nor a hollow 
stalk.” • 

This kind of unflinching frankness was the most 
15 piquant form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, 
and Ben Winthrop’s insult was felt by everybody to 
have capped Mr. Macey ’s epigram. 

“I see what it is plain enough,” said Mr. Tookey, 
unable to. keep cool any longer. “There’s a consperacy 
20 to turn me out o’ the choir, as I shouldn’t share the 
Christmas money — that’s where it is. But I shall speak 
to Mr. Crackenthorp ; I’ll not be put upon by no man.” 

“Nay, nay, Tookey,” said Ben Winthrop. “We’ll 
pay you your share to keep out of it — that’s what we’ll 
25 do. There’s things folks ’ud pay to be rid on, besides 
varmin.” 

“Come, come,” said the landlord, who felt that pay- 
ing people for their absence was a principle dangerous 
to society; “a joke’s a joke. We’re all good friends 
30 here, I hope. We must give and take. You’re both 
right and you’re both wrong, as I say. I agree wi* 
Mr. Macey here, as there’s two opinions; and if mine 
was asked, I should say they’re both right. Tookey’s 


SILAS MARNER 


81 


right and Winthrop’s right, and they’re only got to split 
the difference and make themselves even.” 

The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in 
some contempt at this trival discussion. He had no 
ear for music himself, and never went to church, as 
being of the medical profession, and likely to be in 
requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having 
music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire 
for Tookey’s defeat, and for the preservation of the 
peace. 

“To be sure,” he said, following up the landlord’s 
conciliatory view r , “we’re fond of our old clerk; it’s 
nat’ral, and him used to be such a singer, and got a 
brother as is known for the first fiddler in this country- 
side. Eh, it’s a pity but what Solomon lived in our 
village, and could give us a tune when we liked; eh, 
Mr. Macey? I’d keep him in liver and lights for noth- 
ing — that I w r ould.” 

“Ay, ay”, said Mr. Macey, in the height of com- 
placency; “our family’s been known for musicianers 
as far back as anybody can tell. But them things are 
dying out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round ; 
there’s no voices like what there used to be, and there’s 
nobody remembers what we remember, if it isn’t the old 
crows.” 

“Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter’s father 
come into these parts, don’t you, Mr. Macey?” said the 
landlord. 

“I should think I did,” said the old man, who had 
now gone through that complimentary process neces- 
sary to bring him up to the point of narration; “and a 
fine old gentleman he was — as fine, and finer nor the 
Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from a bit north- 


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’ard, so far as I could ever make out. But there’s 
nobody rightly knows about those parts: only it couldn’t 
be far north’ard, nor much different from this country, 
for he brought a fine breed o’ sheep with him, so there 
5 must be pastures there, and everything reasonable. We 
heared tell as he’d sold his own land to come and take 
the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as had 
land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange 
place. But they said it was along of his wife’s dying; 
10 though there’s reasons in things as nobody knows on — 
that’s pretty much what I’ve made out; yet some folks 
are so wise, they’ll find you fifty reasons straight off, 
and all the while the real reason’s winking at ’em in the 
corner, and they niver see’t. Howsomever, it was soon 
15 seen as we’d got a new parish’ner as know’d the rights 
and customs o’ things, and kep’ a good house, and was 
well looked on by everybody. And the young man — 
that’s the Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he’d niver a 
sister- — soon began to court Miss Osgood, that’s the 
20 sister o’ the Mr. Osgood as now is, and a fine handsome 
lass she was — eh, you can’t think — they pretend this 
young lass is like her, but that’s the way wi’ people as 
don’t know what come before ’em. I should know, for I 
helped the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, — I helped 
25 him marry ’em.” 

Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narra- 
tive in instalments, expecting to be questioned accord- 
ing to precedent. 

“Ay, and a partic’lar thing happened, didn’t it, Mr. 
30 Macey, so as you were likely to remember that mar- 
riage?” said the landlord, in a congratulatory tone. 

“I should think there did — a very partic’lar thing, 
said Mr. Macey, nodding sideways. “For Mr. Drum- 


SILAS MARNER 


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low — poor old gentleman, I was fond on him, though 
he’d got a bit confused in his head, what wi’ age and 
wi’ taking a drop o' summat warm when the service 
come of a cold morning. And young Mr. Lammeter, 
he’d have no way but he must be married in Jani- 
wary, which, to be sure, ’s a unreasonable time to be 
married in, for it isn’t like a christening or a burying, 
as you can’t help; and so Mr. Drumlow — poor old 
gentleman, I was fond on him — but when he come to 
put the questions, he put ’em by the rule o’ contrairy, 
like, and he says, ‘Wilt thou have this man to thy 
wedded wife?’ says he, and then he says, ‘Wilt thou 
have this woman to thy wedded husband?’ says he. 
But the partic’larest thing of all is, as nobody took 
any notice on it but me, and they answered straight 
off ‘Yes,’ like as if it had been me saying ‘Amen’ i’ the 
right place, without listening to what went before.” 

“But you knew what was going on well enough, 
didn’t you, Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh?” 
said the butcher. 

“Lor’ bless you!” said Mr. Macey, pausing, and 
smiling in pity at the impotence of his hearer’s imagi- 
nation; “why, I was all of a tremble; it was as if 
I’d been a coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I 
couldn’t stop the parson, I couldn’t take upon me to 
do that; and yet I said to myself, I says, ‘Suppose 
they shouldn’t be fast married, ’cause the words are 
contrairy?’ and my head w r ent working like a mill, for 
I was allays uncommon for turning things over and 
seeing all round ’em; and I says to myself, ‘Is’t the 
meanin’ or the words as makes folks fast i’ wedlock?’ 
For the parson meant right, and the bride and bride- 
groom meant right. But then, when I come to think 


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on it, meanin’ goes but a little way i’ most things, for 
you may mean to stick things together and your glue 
may be bad, and then where are you? And so I says 
to mysen, ‘It isn’t the meanin’, it’s the glue.’ And I 
5 was worreted as if I’d got three bells to pull at once, 
when we went into the vestry, and they begun to sign 
their names. But where’s the use o’ talking?- — you 
can’t think what goes on in a ’cute man’s inside.” 

“But you held in for all that, didn’t you, Mr. Macey?” 
10 said the landlord. 

“Ay, I held in tight till I was by myself wi’ Mr. 
Drumlow, and then I out wi’ everything, but respect- 
ful, as I allays did. And he made light on it, and he 
says, ‘Pooh, pooh, Maeey, make yourself easy,’ he says; 
15 ‘it’s neither the meaning nor the words — it’s the register 
does it — that’s the glue.’ So you see he settled it easy; 
for parsons and doctors know everything by heart, like, 
so as they aren’t worreted wi’ thinking what’s the rights 
and wrongs o’ things, as I’n been many and many’s the 
20 time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, 
on’y poor Mrs. Lammeter — that’s Miss Osgood as was — 
died afore the lasses was growed up; but for prosperity 
and everything respectable, there’s no family more 
looked on.” 

25 Every one of Mr. Macey’s audience had heard this 
story many times, but it was listened to as if it had 
been a favorite tune, and at certain points the puffing 
of the pipes was momentarily suspended, that the 
listeners might give their whole minds to the expected 
30 words. But there was more to come; and Mr. Snell, 
the landlord, duly put the leading question. 

“Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn’t 
they say, when he come into these parts?” 


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“Well, yes,” said Mr. Macey; “but I dare say it’s 
as much as this Mr. Lammeter’s done to keep it whole. 
For there was allays a talk as nobody could get rich 
on the Warrens: though he holds it cheap, for it’s 
what they call Charity Land.” 

“Ay, and there’s few folks know so well as you how 
it come to be Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the 
butcher. 

“How should they?” said the old clerk, with some 
contempt. “Why my grandfather made the grooms 
livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and built the big 
stables at the Warrens. Why, they’re stables four 
times as big as Squire Cass’s, for he thought o’ nothing 
but bosses and hunting, Cliff didn’t — a Lunnon tailor, 
some folks said, as had gone mad wi’ cheating. For 
he couldn’t ride; lor’ bless you! they said he’d got no 
more grip o’ the hoss than if his legs had been cross- 
sticks: my grandfather beared old Squire Cass say so 
many and many a time. But ride he would, as if Old 
Harry had been a-driving him; and he’d a son, a lad 
o’ sixteen; and nothing would his father have him do, 
but he must ride and ride — though the lad was frighted, 
they said. And it was a common saying as the father 
wanted to ride the tailor out o’ the lad, and make a 
gentleman on him — not but what I’m a tailor myself, 
but in respect as God made me such, I’m proud on 
it, for ‘Macey, Tailor,’ ’s been wrote up over our door 
since afore the Queen’s heads went out on the shillings. 
But Cliff, he was ashamed o’ being called a tailor, and 
he was sore vexed as his riding was laughed at, and 
nobody o’ the gentlefolks hereabout could abide him. 
Howsomever, the poor lad got sickly and died and the 
father didn’t live long after him, for he got queerer 


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nor ever, and they said he used to go out in the dead 
o’ night, wi’ a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and 
set a lot o’ lights burning, for he got as he couldn’t 
sleep ; and there he’d stand, cracking his whip and look- 
5 ing at his hosses; and they said it was a mercy as the 
stables didn’t get burnt down wi’ the poor dumb creaturs 
in ’em. But at last he died raving, and they found as 
he’d left all his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon 
Charity, and that’s how the Warrens come to be Charity 
10 Land; though, as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never 
uses ’em — they’re out o’ all charicter — lor’ bless you! 
if you was to set the doors a-banging in ’em, it ’ud sound 
like thunder half o’er the parish.” 

“Ay, but there’s more going on in the stables than 
15 what folks see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the 
landlord. 

“Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that’s all,” 
said Mr. Macey, winking mysteriously, “and then make 
believe, if you like, as you didn’t see lights i’ the 
20 stables, nor hear the stamping o’ the hosses, nor the 
cracking o’ the whips, and howling, too, if it’s tow’rt 
daybreak. ‘Cliff’s Holiday’ has been the name of it 
ever sin’ I were a boy; that’s to say, some said as it 
was the holiday Old Llarry gev him from roasting, 
25 like. That’s what my father told me, and he was a 
reasonable man, though there’s folks nowadays know 
what happened afore they were born better nor they 
know their own business.” 

“What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?” said the 
30 landlord, turning to the farrier, who was swelling with 
impatience for his cue. “There’s a nut for you to 
crack. 

Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, 
and was proud of his position. 


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“Say? I say what a man should say as doesn’t shut 
his eyes to look at a finger-post. I say , as I’m ready 
to wager any man ten pound, if he’ll stand out wi’ me 
any dry night in the pasture before the Warren stables, 
as we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn’t 
the blowing of our own noses. That’s what I say, and 
I’ve said it many a time; but there’s nobody ’ull ven- 
tur a ten-pun’ note on their ghos’es as they make so 
sure of.” 

“Why, Dowlas, that’s easy betting, that is,” said 
Ben Winthrop. “You might as well bet a man as he 
wouldn’t catch the rheumatise if he stood up to ’s neck 
in the pool of a frosty night. It ’ud be fine fun for a 
man to win his bet as he’d catch the rheumatise. Folks 
as believe in Cliff’s Holiday aren’t a-going to ventur 
near it for a matter o’ ten pound.” 

“If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,” 
said Mr. Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his 
thumbs together, “he’s no call to lay any bet — let him 
go and stan’ by himself — there’s nobody ’ull hinder 
him ; and then he can let the parish’ners know if they’re 
wrong.” 

“Thank you! I’m obliged to you,” said the far- 
rier, with a snort of scorn. “If folks are fools, it’s no 
business o’ mine. I don’t want to make out the truth 
about ghos’es: I know it a’ready. But I’m not against 
a bet — everything fair and open. Let any man bet 
me ten pound as I shall see Cliff’s Holiday, and I’ll go 
and stand by myself. I want no company. I’d as lief 
do it as I’d fill this pipe.” 

“Ah, but who’s to watch you, Dowlas, and see you 
do it? That’s no fair bet,” said the butcher. 

“No fair bet?” replied Mr. Dowlas angrily. “I 


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should like to hear any man stand up and say I want 
to be unfair. Come now. Master Lundy, I should 
like to hear you say it.” 

“Very like you would,” said the butcher. “But it’s 
g no business o’ mine. You’re none o’ my bargains, and 
I aren’t a-going to try and ’bate your price. If any- 
body ’ll bid for you at your own vallying, let him. I’m 
for peace and quietness, I am.” 

“Yes, that’s what every yapping cur is, when you 
10 hold a stick up at him,” said the farrier. “But I’m 
afraid o’ neither man nor ghost, and I’m ready to lay 
a fair bet. I aren’t turn-tail cur.” 

“Ay, but there’s this in it. Dowlas,” said the land- 
lord, speaking in a tone of much candor and toler- 
15 ance. “There’s folks, i’ my opinion, they can’t see 
ghos’es, not if they stood as plain as a pike-staff be- 
fore ’em. And there’s reason i’ that. For there’s 
my wife, now, can’t smell, not if she’d the strongest o’ 
cheese under her nose. I never see’d a ghost myself, 
20 but then I says to myself, ‘Very like I haven’t got 
the smell for ’em.’ I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, 
or else contrairiways. And so, I’m for holding with 
both sides; for, as I say, the truth lies between ’em. 
And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say he’d never 
25 seen a wink o’ Cliff’s Holiday all the night through, 
I’d back him; and if anybody said as Cliff’s Holiday 
w r as certain sure, for all that, I’d back him too. For 
the smell’s what I go by.” 

The landlord’s analogical argument was not well 
30 received by the farrier — a man intensely opposed to 
compromise. 

“Tut, tut,” he said, setting down his glass with re- 
freshed irritation; “what’s the smell got to do with 


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it? Did ever a ghost give a man a black eye? That’s 
what I should like to know. If ghos’es want me to be- 
lieve in ’em, let ’em leave off skulking i’ the dark and 
i’ lone places — let ’em come where there’s company and 
candles.” 

“As if ghos’es ’ud want to be believed in by any- 
body so ignirant !” said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at 
the farrier’s crass incompetence to apprehend the con- 
dition of ghostly phenoma. 

CHAPTER VII 

Yet the next moment there seemed to be some 
evidence that ghosts had a more condescending dispo- 
sition than Mr. Macey attributed to them, for the pale 
thin figure of Silas Marner was suddenly seen stand- 
ing in the warm light, uttering no word, but looking 
round at the company with his strange unearthly eyes. 
The long pipes gave a simultaneous movement, like 
the antennae of startled insects, and every man pres- 
ent, not excepting even the skeptical farrier, had an 
impression that he saw, not Silas Marner in the flesh, 
but an apparition; for the door by which Silas had en- 
tered was hidden by the high-screened seats, and no 
one had noticed his approach. Mr. Macey, sitting a 
long way off the ghost, might be supposed to have felt 
an argumentative triumph, which would tend to neu- 
tralize his share of the general alarm. Had he not al- 
ways said that when Silas Marner was in that strange 
trance of his, his soul went loose from his body? Here 
was the demonstration; nevertheless, on the whole, he 
would have been as well contented without it. For a 


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few moments there was a dead silence, Marner’s want 
of breath and agitation not allowing him to speak. 
The landlord, under the habitual sense that he was 
bound to keep his house open to all company, and con- 
fident in the protection of his unbroken neutrality, at 
last took on himself the task of adjuring the ghost. 

“Master Marner,” he said, in a conciliatory tone, 
“what’s lacking to you? Wliat’s your business here?” 

“Robbed!” said Silas gaspingly. “I’ve been robbed! 
I want the constable — and the Justice — and Squire Cass 
— and Mr. Crackenthorp.” 

“Lay hold on him, Jem Rodney,” said the landlord, 
the idea of a ghost subsiding; “he’s off his head, I doubt. 
He’s wet through.” 

Jem Rodney was the outermost man, and sat con- 
veniently near Marner’s standing-place; but he declined 
to give his services. 

“Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if 
you’ve a mind,” said Jem rather sullenly. “He’s been 
robbed, and murdered too, for what I know,” he added, 
in a muttering tone. 

“Jem Rodney!” said Silas, turning and fixing his 
strange eyes on the suspected man. 

“Ay, Master Marner, what do ye want wi’ me?” 
said Jem, trembling a little, and seizing his drinking- 
can as a defensive weapon. 

“If it was you stole my money,” said Silas, clasping 
his hands entreatingly, and raising his voice to a cry, 
“give it me back, — and I won’t meddle with you.. I 
won’t set the constable on you. Give it me back, and 
I’ll let you — I’ll let you have a guinea.” 

“Me stole your money!” said Jem angrily. “I’ll 
pitch this can at your eye if you talk o’ my stealing 
your money.” 


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91 


“Come, come, Master Marner,” said the landlord, 
now rising resolutely, and seizing Marner by the 
shoulder, “if you’ve got any information to lay, speak 
it out sensible, and show as you’re in your right mind, 
if you expect anybody to listen to you. You’re as wet 
as a drownded rat. Sit down and dry yourself, and 
speak straight forrard.” 

“Ah, to be sure, man,” said the farrier, who began 
to feel that he had not been quite on a par with him- 
self and the occasion. “Let’s have no more staring 
and screaming, else we’ll have you strapped for a mad- 
man. That was why I didn’t speak at the first — thinks 
I, the man’s run mad.” 

“Ay, ay, make him sit down,” said several voices 
at once, well pleased that the reality of ghosts remained 
still an open question. 

The landlord forced Marner to take off his coat, 
and then to sit down on a chair aloof from every one 
else, in the centre of the circle, and in the direct rays 
of the fire. The weaver, too feeble to have any dis- 
tinct purpose beyond that of getting help to recover 
his money, submitted unresistingly. The transient 
fears of the company were now forgotten in their strong 
curiosity, and all faces were turned towards Silas, when 
the landlord, having seated himself again, said, — 

“Now, then, Master Marner, what’s this you’ve got 
to say — as you’ve been robbed? Speak out.” 

“He’d better not say again as it was me robbed 
him,” cried Jem Rodney hastily. “What could I ha* 
done with his money? I could as easy steal the par- 
son’s surplice, and wear it.” 

“Hold your tongue, Jem, and let’s hear what he’s 


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got to say,” said the landlord. “Now, then, Master 
Marner.” 

Silas now told his story under frequent question- 
ing, as the mysterious character of the robbery became 
5 evident. 

This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble 
to his Raveloe neighbors, of sitting in the warmth of a 
hearth not his own, and feeling the presence of faces and 
voices which were his nearest promise of help, had doubt- 
10 less its influence on Marner, in spite of his passionate 
preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness rarely 
registers the beginning of a growth within us any more 
than without us: there have been many circulations of 
the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the bud. 

15 The slight suspicion with which his hearers at first 
listened to him gradually melted away before the con- 
vincing simplicity of his distress: it was impossible for 
the neighbors to doubt that Marner was telling the 
truth, not because they were capable of arguing at 
20 once from the nature of his statements to the absence 
of any motive for making them falsely, but because, 
as Mr. Macey observed, “Folks as had the devil to 
back ’em were not likely to be so mushed” as poor 
Silas was. Rather, from the strange fact that the 
25 robber had left no traces, and had happened to know 
the nick of time, utterly incalculable by mortal agents, 
when Silas would go away from home without locking 
his door, the more probable conclusion seemed to be, 
that his disreputable intimacy in that quarter, if it ever 
30 existed, had been broken up, and that, in consequence, 
this ill turn had been done to Marner by somebody it 
was quite in vain to set the constable after. Why this 
preternatural felon should be obliged to wait till the 


SILAS MARNER 


93 


door was left unlocked was a question which did not 
present itself. 

“It isn’t Jem Rodney as has done this work, Mas- 
ter Marner,” said the landlord. “You mustn’t be 
a-casting your eye at poor Jem. There may be a bit 5 
of a reckoning against Jem for that matter of a hare or 
so, if anybody was bound to keep their eyes staring 
open, and niver to wink; but Jem’s been a-sitting here 
drinking his can, like the decentest man i’ the parish, 
since before you left your house, Master Marner, by 10 
your own account.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, “let’s have no accusing 
o’ the innieent. That isn’t the law. There must be 
folks to swear again’ a man before he can be ta’en 
up. Let’s have no accusing o’ the innieent, Master 15 
Marner. 

Memory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it 
could not be wakened by these words. With a move- 
ment of compunction, as new and strange to him as 
everything else within the last hour, he started from 20 
his chair and went close up to Jem, looking at him as r 
if he wanted to assure himself of the expression in his 
face. 

“I was wrong,” he said; “yes, yes — I ought to have 
thought. There’s nothing to witness against you, Jem. 25 
Only you’d been into my house oftener than anybody 
else, and so you came into my head. I don’t accuse 
you — I won’t accuse anybody — only,” he added, lifting 
up his hands to his head, and turning away with be- 
wildered misery, “I try — I try to think where my 30 
guineas can be.” 

“Ay, ay, they’re gone where it’s hot enough to melt 
’em, I doubt,” said Mr. Macey. 


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“Tcliuh!” said the farrier. And then he asked, with 
a cross-examining air, “How much money might there 
be in the bags, Master Marner?” 

“Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and 
5 sixpence, last night when I counted it,” said Silas, seat- 
ing himself again, with a groan. 

“Pooh! why, they’d be none so heavy to carry. 
Some tramp’s been in, that’s all; and as for the no 
footmarks, and the bricks and the sand being all right 
1C — why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect’s, 
Master Marner; they’re obliged to look so close, you 
can’t see much at a time. It’s my opinion as, if I’d 
been you, or you’d "been me — for it comes to the 
same thing — you wouldn’t have thought you’d found 
15 everything as you left it. But what I vote is, as two 
of the sensiblest o’ the company should go with you to 
Master Kench, the constable’s — he’s ill i’ bed, I 
know that much — and get him to appoint one of us 
his deppity; for that’s the law, and I don’t think any- 
20 body ’ull take upon him to contradick me there. It 
isn’t much of a walk to Kench’s; and then, if it’s me 
as is deppity, I’ll go back with you, Master Marner, 
and examine your premises; and if anybody’s got any 
fault to find with that, I’ll thank him to stand up and 
25 say it out like a man.” 

By this pregnant speech the farrier had re-established 
his self-complacency, and waited with confidence to hear 
himself named as one of the superlatively sensible men. 

“Let us see how the night is, though,” said the land- 
30 lord, who also considered himself personally concerned 
in this proposition. “Why, it rains heavy still,” he 
said, returning from the door. 

“Well, I’m not the man to be afraid o’ the rain,” 


SILAS MARNER 


95 


said the farrier. “For it’ll look bad when Justice 
Malara hears as respectable men like us had a informa- 
tion laid before ’em and took no steps.” 

The landlord agreed with this view, and after taking 
the sense of the company, and duly rehearsing a small 
ceremony known in high ecclesiastical life as the nolo 
episcopari, he consented to take on himself the chill 
dignity of going to Kench’s. But to the farrier’s 
strong disgust, Mr. Macey now started an objection to 
his proposing himself as a deputy-constable; for that 
oracular old gentleman, claiming to know the law, stated, 
as a fact delivered to him by his father, that no doctor 
could be a constable. 

“And you’re a doctor, I reckon, though you’re only 
a cow-doctor — for a fly’s a fly, though it may be a hoss- 
fly,” concluded Mr. Macey, wondering a little at his own 
“’cuteness.” 

There was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being 
of course indisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, 
but contending that a doctor could be a constable if 
he liked — the law meant, he needn’t be one if he didn’t 
like. Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the 
law was not likely to be fonder of doctors than of other 
folks. Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more 
than of other men not to like being constables, how came 
Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in that capacity? 

“7 don’t want to act the constable,” said the far- 
rier, driven into a corner by this merciless reasoning; 
“and there’s no man can say it of me, if he’d tell the 
truth. But if there’s to be any jealousy and envy- 
ing about going to Kench’s in the rain, let them go as 
like it — you won’t get me to go, I can tell you.” 

By the landlord’s intervention, however, the dispute 


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was accommodated. Mr. Dowlas consented to go as 
a second person disinclined to act officially; and so poor 
Silas, furnished with some old coverings, turned out 
with his two companions into the rain again, thinking 
5 of the long night hours before him, not as those do who 
long to rest, but as those who expect to “watch for the 
morning.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

When Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood’s 
party at midnight, he was not much surprised to learn 
that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he had not 
sold Wildlire, and was waiting for another chance — 
perhaps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred 
housing himself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the 
night, if the run had kept him in that neighborhood; 
25 for he was not likely to feel much concern about leav- 
ing his brother in suspense. Godfrey’s mind was too 
full of Nancy Lammeter’s looks and behavior, too full 
of the exasperation against himself and his lot, which 
the sight of her always produced in him, for him to 
20 give much thought to Wildfire or to the probabilities of 
Dunstan’s conduct. 

The next morning the whole village was excited by 
the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every one 
else, was occupied in gathering and discussing news 
25 about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain had 
washed away all possibility of distinguishing footmarks, 
but a close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in 
the direction opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with 
a flint and steel, half sunk in the mud. It was not Silas’s 
30 tinder-box, for the only one he had ever had was still 


SILAS MARNER 


97 


standing on his shelf; and the inference generally ac- 
cepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was some- 
how connected with the robbery. A small minority 
shook their heads, and intimated their opinion that it was 
not a robbery to have much light thrown on it by tinder- 
boxes, that Master Marner’s tale had a queer look with 
it, and that such things had been known as a man’s 
doing himself a mischief, and then setting the justice 
to look for the doer. But when questioned closely as 
to their grounds for this opinion, and what Master Mar- 
ner had to gain by such false pretences, they only shook 
their heads as before, and observed that there was no 
knowing what some folks counted gain; moreover, that 
everybody had a right to their own opinions, grounds or 
no grounds, and that the weaver, as everybody knew, was 
partly crazy. Mr. Macey, though he joined in the de- 
fence of Marner against all suspicions of deceit, also 
pooh-poohed the tinder-box; indeed, repudiated it as a 
rather impious suggestion, tending to imply that every- 
thing must be done by human hands, and that there was 
no power which could make away with the guineas with- 
out moving the bricks. Nevertheless, he turned round 
rather sharply on Mr. Tookey, when the zealous dep- 
uty, feeling that this was a view of the case peculiarly 
suited to a parish-clerk, carried it still further, and 
doubted whether it was right to inquire into a robbery 
at all when the circumstances were so mysterious. 

“As if,” concluded Mr. Tookey — “as if there was 
nothing but what could be made out by justices and 
constables.” 

“Now, don’t you be for overshooting the mark, 
Tookey,” said Mr. Macey, nodding his head aside ad- 
monishingly. “That’s what you’re allays at; if I throw 

t 


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a stone and hit, you think there’s summat better than 
hitting, and you try to throw a stone beyond. What I 
said was against the tinder-box: I said nothing against 
justices and constables, for they’re o’ King George’s 
5 making, and it ’ud be ill-becoming a man in a parish office 
to fly out again’ King George.” 

While these discussions were going on amongst the 
group outside the Rainbow, a higher consultation was 
being carried on within, under the presidency of Mr. 
IQ Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass and 
other substantial parishioners. It had just occurred 
to Mr. Snell, the landlord,— he being, as he observed, 
a man accustomed to put two and two together, — to 
connect with the tinder-box which, as deputy-consta- 
15 ble, he himself had had the honorable distinction of 
finding, certain recollections of a pedlar who had called 
to drink at the house about a month before, and had 
actually stated that he carried a tinder-box about with 
him to light his pipe. Here, surely, was a clue to be 
2 q followed out. And as memory, when duly impregnated 
with ascertained facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, 
Mr. Snell gradually recovered a vivid impression of the 
effect produced on him by the pedlar’s countenance and 
conversation. He had a “look with his eye” which fell 
25 unpleasantly on Mr. Snell’s sensitive organism. To be 
sure, he didn’t say anything particular, — no, except that 
about the tinder-box, — but it isn’t what a man says, it’s 
the way he says it. Moreover, he had a swarthy foreign- 
ness of complexion which boded little honesty. 

2Q “Did he wear ear-rings?” Mr. Crackenthorp wished 
to know, having some acquaintance with foreign cus- 
toms. 

“Well — stay — let me see,” said Mr. Snell, like a 


SILAS MARNER 


99 


docile clairvoyante who would really not make a mis- 
take if she could help it. After stretching the corners 
of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were 
trying to see the ear-rings, he appeared to give up the 
effort, and said, “Well, he’d got ear-rings in his box 
to sell, so it’s nat’ral to suppose he might wear ’em. 
But he called at every house, a’most, in the village; 
there’s somebody else, mayhap, saw ’em in his ears, 
though I can’t take upon me rightly to say.” 

Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that some- 
body else would remember the pedlar’s ear-rings. For, 
on the spread of inquiry among the villagers, it was 
stated with gathering emphasis, that the parson had 
wanted to know whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in 
his ears, and an impression was created that a great 
deal depended on the eliciting of this fact. Of course 
every one who heard the question, not having any dis- 
tinct image of the pedlar as without ear-rings, imme- 
diately had an image of him with ear-rings, larger or 
smaller, as the case might be; and the image was pres- 
ently taken for a vivid recollection, so that the glaz- 
ier’s wife, a well-intentioned woman, not given to 
lying, and whose house was among the cleanest in the 
village, was ready to declare, as sure as ever she meant 
to take the sacrament the very next Christmas that 
was ever coming, that she had seen big ear-rings, in 
the shape of the young moon, in the pedlar’s two ears; 
while Jinny Oates, the cobbler’s daughter, being a 
more imaginative person, stated not only that she had 
seen them too, but that they had made her blood creep, 
as it did at that very moment while there she stood. 

Also, by way of throwing further light on the clue 
of the tinder-box, a collection was made of all the 


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articles purchased from the pedlar at various houses, 
and carried to the Rainbow to be exhibited there. In 
fact, there was a general feeling in the village, that 
for the clearing-up of this robbery there must be a 
5 great deal done at the Rainbow, and that no man need 
offer his wife an excuse for going there while it was 
the scene of severe public duties. 

Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little 
indignation also, when it became known that Silas 
10 Marner, on being questioned by the Squire and the 
parson, had retained no other recollection of the pedlar 
than that he had called at his door, but had not en- 
tered his house, having turned away at once when 
Silas, holding the door ajar, had said that he wanted 
15 nothing. This had been Silas’s testimony, though he 
clutched strongly at the idea of the pedlar’s being the 
culprit, if only because it gave him a definite image of 
a whereabout for his gold after it had been taken away 
from its hiding-place: he could see it now in the pedlar’s 
20 box. But it was observed with some irritation in the 
village, that anybody but a “blind creature” like Marner 
would have seen the man prowling about, for how came 
he to leave his tinder-box in the ditch close by, if he 
hadn’t been lingering there? Doubtless he had made 
25 his observations when he saw Marner at the door. 
Anybody might know — and only look at him — that the 
weaver was a half-crazy miser. It was a wonder the 
pedlar hadn’t murdered him; men of that sort, with 
rings in their ears, had been known for murderers often 
30 and often ; there had been one tried at the ’sizes, not so 
long ago but what there were people living who remem- 
bered it. 

Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during 


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one of Mr. Snell’s frequently repeated recitals of his 
testimony, had treated it lightly, stating that he himself 
had bought a pen-knife of the pedlar, and thought him a 
merry grinning fellow enough; it was all nonsense, he 
said, about the man’s evil looks. But this was spoken 
of in the village as the random talk of youth, “as if it 
was only Mr. Snell who had seen something odd about 
the pedlar !” On the contrary, there were at least half a 
dozen who were ready to go before Justice Malam, and 
give in much more striking testimony than any the 
landlord could furnish. It was to be hoped Mr. Godfrey 
would not go to Tarley and throw cold water on what 
Mr. Snell said there, and so prevent the justice from 
drawing up a warrant. He was suspected of intending 
this, when, after mid-day, he was seen setting off on 
horseback in the direction of Tarley. 

But by this time Godfrey’s interest in the robbery 
had faded before his growing anxiety about Dunstan 
and Wildfire, and he was going, not to Tarley, but to 
•Batherley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them 
any longer. The possibility that Dunstan had played 
him the ugly trick of riding away with Wildfire, to 
return at the end of a month, when he had gambled 
away or otherwise squandered the price of the horse, 
was a fear that urged itself upon him more, even, than 
the thought of an accidental injury; and now that the 
dance at Mrs. Osgood’s was past, he was irritated 
with himself that he had trusted his horse to Dunstan. 
Instead of trying to still his fears he encouraged them, 
with that superstitious impression which clings to us all, 
that if we expect evil very strongly it is the less likely 
to come; and when he heard a horse approaching at a 
trot, and saw a hat rising above a hedge beyond an 


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angle of the lane, he felt as if his conjuration had suc- 
ceeded. But no sooner did the horse come within sight 
than his heart sank again. It was not Wildfire; and in 
a few moments more he discerned that the rider was not 

5 Dunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to speak, with a face 
that implied something disagreeable. 

“Well, Mr. Godfrey, that’s a lucky brother of yours, 
that Master Dunsey, isn’t he?” 

“What do you mean?” said Godfrey hastily. 

10 “Why, hasn’t he been home yet?” said Bryce. 

“Home? — no. What has happened? Be quick. 

What has he done with my horse?” 

“Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended you 
had parted with it to him.” 

15 “Has he thrown him down and broken his knees?” 
said Godfrey, flushed with exasperation. 

“Worse than that,” said Bryce. “You see, I’d made 
a bargain with him to buy the horse for a hundred and 
twenty — a swinging price, but I always liked the horse. 

20 And what does he do but go and stake him, — fly at a 
hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditch 
before it. The horse had been dead a pretty good while 
when he was found. So he hasn’t been home since, 
has he?” 

25 “Home? — no,” said Godfrey, “and he’d better keep 

away. Confound me for a fool! I might have known 
this would be the end of it.” 

“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Bryce, “after I’d 
bargained for the horse, it did come into my head that 

30 he might be riding and selling the horse without your 
knowledge, for I didn’t believe it was his own. I knew 
Master Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes. But 
where can he be gone ? He’s never been seen at Bather- 


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103 


ley. He couldn’t have been hurt, for he must have 
walked off.” 

“Hurt?” said Godfrey bitterly. “He’ll never be 
hurt — he’s made to hurt other people.” 

“And so you did give him leave to sell the horse, 
eh?” said Bryce. 

“Yes; I wanted to part with the horse — he was 
always a little too hard in the mouth for me,” said 
Godfrey; his pride making him wince under the idea 
that Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity. 
“I was going to see after him — I thought some 
mischief had happened. I’ll go back now,” he added, 
turning the horse’s head, and wishing he could get rid 
of Bryce; for he felt that the long-dreaded crisis in his 
life was close upon him. “You’re coming on to Raveloe, 
aren’t you?” 

“Well, no, not now,” said Bryce. “I was coming 
round there, for I had to go to Flitton, and I thought 
I might as well take you in my way, and just let you 
know all I knew myself about the horse. I suppose 
Master Dunsey didn’t like to show himself till the ill 
news had blown over a bit. He’s perhaps gone to pay 
a visit at the Three Crowns, by Whitbridge — I know 
he’s fond of the house.” 

“Perhaps he is,” said Godfrey, rather absently. Then 
rousing himself, he said, with an effort at carelessness, 
“We shall hear of him soon enough, I’ll be bound.” 

“Well, here’s my turning,” said Bryce, not surprised 
to perceive that Godfrey was rather “down;” “so I’ll 
bid you good-day, and wish I may bring you better news 
another time.” 

Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself 
the scene of confession to his father from which he felt 


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that there was now no longer any escape. The revela- 
tion about the money must be made the very next morn- 
ing; and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be sure 
to come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the 
5 brunt of his father’s anger, would tell the whole story 
out of spite, even though he had nothing to gain by it. 
There was one step, perhaps, by which he might still 
win Dunstan’s silence and put off the evil day: he might 
tell his father that he had himself spent the money paid 
to him by Fowler; and as he had never been guilty of 
such an offence before, the affair would blow over after 
a little storming. But Godfrey could not bend himself 
to this. He felt that in letting Dunstan have the money 
he had already been guilty of a breach of trust hardly 
1^ less culpable than that of spending the money directly 
for his own behoof ; and yet there was a distinction be- 
tween the two acts which made him feel that the one was 
so much more blackening than the other as to be intoler- 
able to him. 

“ I don’t pretend to be a good fellow,” he said to 
himself; “but I’m not a scoundrel — at least, I’ll stop 
short somewhere. I’ll bear the consequences of what 
I have done sooner than make believe I’ve done what 
I never would have done. I’d never have spent the 
25 money for my own pleasure — I was tortured into it.” 

Through the remainder of this day Godfrey, with 
only occasional fluctuations, kept his will bent in the 
direction of a complete avowal to his father, and he 
withheld the story of Wildfire’s loss till the next morn- 
30 ing, that it might serve him as an introduction to heavier 
matter. The old Squire was accustomed to his son’s 
frequent absence from home, and thought neither Dun- 
stan’s nor Wildfire’s non-appearance a matter calling for 


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remark. Godfrey said to himself again and again, that 
if he let slip this one opportunity of confession, he 
might never have another; the revelation might be made 
even in a more odious way than by Dunstan’s malignity, 
— she might come, as she had threatened to do. And 
then he tried to make the scene easier to himself by re- 
hearsal: he made up his mind how he would pass from 
the admission of his weakness in letting Dunstan have 
the money to the fact that Dunstan had a hold on him 
which he had been unable to shake off, and how he would 
work up his father to expect something very bad before 
he told him the fact. The old Squire was an implacable 
man: he made resolutions in violent anger, and he was 
not to be moved from them after his anger had subsided 
— as fiery volcanic matters cool and harden into rock. 
Like many violent and implacable men, he allowed evils 
to grow under favor of his own heedlessness, till they 
pressed upon him with exasperating force, and then he 
turned round with fierce severity and became unrelent- 
ingly hard. This was his system with his tenants: he 
allowed them to get into arrears, neglect their fences, 
reduce their stock, sell their straw, and otherwise go 
the wrong way, — and then, when he became short of 
money in consequence of this indulgence, he took the 
hardest measures and would listen to no appeal. God- 
frey knew all this, and felt it with the greater force 
because he had constantly suffered annoyance from 
witnessing his father's sudden fits of unrelentingness, 
for which his own habitual irresolution deprived him 
of all sympathy. (He was not critical on the faulty 
indulgence which proceeded these fits ; that seemed to 
him natural enough.) Still there was just the chance, 
Godfrey thought, that his father's pride might see this 


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marriage in a light that would induce him to hush it up, 
rather than turn his son out and make the family the 
talk of the country for ten miles round. 

This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed 
5 to keep before him pretty closely till midnight, and he 
went to sleep thinking that he had done with inward 
debating. But when he awoke in the still morning 
darkness he found it impossible to reawaken his even- 
ing thoughts; it was as if they had been tired out and 
10 were not to be roused to further work. Instead of 
arguments for confession, he could now feel the pres- 
ence of nothing but its evil consequences : the old 
dread of disgrace came back — the old shrinking from 
the thought of raising a hopeless barrier between him- 
15 self and Nancy — the old disposition to rely on chances 
which might be favorable to him, and save him from be- 
trayal. Why, after all, should he cut off the hope of 
them by his own act? He had seen the matter in a 
wrong light yesterday. He had been in a rage with 

20 Dunstan, and had thought of nothing but a thorough 
break-up of their mutual understanding; but what it 
would be really wisest for him to do was to try and 
soften his father’s anger against Dunsey, and keep 
things as nearly as possible in their old condition. If 
25 Dunsey did not come back for a few days (and Godfrey 
did not know but that the rascal had enough money in 
his pocket to enable him to keep away still longer), 
everything might blow over. 

CHAPTER IX 

Godfrey rose and took his own breakfast earlier 
3 q than usual, but lingered in the wainscoted parlor till 


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his younger brothers had finished their meal and gone 
out, awaiting his father, who always took a walk with 
his managing-man before breakfast. Every one break- 
fasted at a different hour in the Red House, and the 
Squire was always the latest, giving a long chance to a 
rather feeble morning appetite before he tried it. The 
table had been spread with substantial eatables nearly 
two hours before he presented himself — a tall, stout 
man of sixty, with a face in which the knit brow and 
rather hard glance seemed contradicted by the slack and 
feeble mouth. His person showed marks of habitual 
neglect, his dress was slovenly ; and yet there was some- 
thing in the presence of the old Squire distinguishable 
from that of the ordinary farmers in the parish, who 
were perhaps every whit as refined as he, but, having 
slouched their way through life with a consciousness of 
being in the vicinity of their “betters,” wanted that 
self-possession and authoritativeness of voice and car- 
riage which belonged to a man who thought of superiors 
as remote existences, with whom he had personally little 
more to do than with America or the stars. The Squire 
had been used to parish homage all his life, used to the 
presupposition that his family, his tankards, and every- 
thing that was his, were the oldest and best; and as he 
never associated with any gentry higher than himself, 
his opinion was not disturbed by comparison. 

He glanced at his son as he entered the room, and 
said, “What, sir! haven’t you had your breakfast yet?” 
but there was no pleasant morning greeting between 
them; not because of any unfriendliness, but because 
the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such 
homes as the Red House. 

“Yes, sir,” said Godfrey, “I’ve had my breakfast, 
but I was waiting to speak to you.” 


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‘‘Ah! well,” said the Squire, throwing himself in- 
differently into his chair, and speaking in a ponderous 
coughing fashion, which was felt in Raveloe to be a 
sort of privilege of his rank, while he cut a piece of 
5 beef, and held it up before the deerhound that had 
come in with him. “Ring the bell for my ale, will you? 
You youngsters’ business is your own pleasure, mostly. 
There’s no hurry about it for anybody but yourselves.” 

The Squire’s life was quite as idle as his sons’, but 
10 it was a fiction kept up by himself and his contem- 
poraries in Raveloe that youth was exclusively the period 
of folly, and that their aged wisdom was constantly 
in a state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm. Godfrey 
waited, before he spoke again, until the ale had been 
15 brought and the door closed — an interval during which 
Fleet, the deerhound, had consumed enough bits of beef 
to make a poor man’s holiday dinner. 

“There’s been a cursed piece of ill-luck with Wild- 
fire,” he began; “happened the day before yesterday.” 
20 “What! broke his knees?” said the Squire, after 
taking a draught of ale. “I thought you knew how to 
ride better than that, sir. I never threw a horse down 
in my life. If I had, I might ha’ whistled for another, 
for my father wasn’t quite so ready to unstring as 
25 some other fathers I know of. But they must turn 
over a new leaf — they must. What with mortgages 
and arrears, I’m as short o,’ cash as a roadside pauper. 
And that fool Kimble says the newspaper’s talking 
about peace. Why, the country wouldn’t have a leg 

30 to stand on. Prices ’ud run down like a jack, and I 

should never get my arrears, not if I sold all the fel- 
lows up. And there’s that damned Fowler, I won’t 


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put up with him any longer; I’ve told Winthrop to go 
to Cox this very day. The lying scoundrel told me 
he’d be sure to pay me a hundred last month. He 
takes advantage because he’s on that outlying farm and 
thinks I shall forget him.” 

The Squire had delivered this speech in a coughing 
and interrupted manner, but with no pause long enough 
for Godfrey to make it a pretext for taking up the 
word again. He felt that his father meant to ward 
off any request for money on the ground of the misfor- 
tune with Wildfire, and that the emphasis he had thus 
been led to lay on his shortness of cash and his arrears 
was likely to produce an attitude of mind the utmost 
unfavorable for his own disclosure. But he must go 
on, now he had begun. 

“It’s worse than breaking the horse’s knees — he’s 
been staked and killed,” he said, as soon as his father 
was silent, and had begun to cut his meat. “But I 
wasn’t thinking of asking you to buy me another horse; 
I was only thinking I’d lost the means of paying you 
with the price of Wildfire as I’d meant to do. Dunsey 
took him to the hunt to sell him for me the other day, 
and after he’d made a bargain for a hundred and twenty 
with Bryce he went after the hounds, and took some 
fool’s leap or other that did for the horse at once. If 
it hadn’t been for that, I should have paid you a hundred 
pounds this morning.” 

The Squire had laid down his knife and fork and 
was staring at his son in amazement, not being suffi- 
ciently quick of brain to form a probable guess as to 
what could have caused so strange an inversion of the 
paternal and filial relations as this proposition of his 
son to pay him a hundred pounds. 


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“The truth is, sir — I’m very sorry — I was quite to 
blame/’ said Godfrey. “Fowler did pay that hundred 
pounds. He paid it to me when I was over there one 
day last month. And Dunsey bothered me for the 
5 money, and I let him have it, because I hoped I should 
be able to pay it you before this.” 

The Squire was purple with anger before his son 
had done speaking, and found utterance difficult. 
“You let Dunsey have it, sir? And how long have 
10 you been so thick with Dunsey that you must collogue 
with him to embezzle my money? Are you turning 
out a scamp? I tell you I won’t have it. I’ll turn 
the whole pack of you out of the house together, and 
marry again. I’d have you to remember, sir, my 
15 property’s got no entail on it; since my grandfather’s 
time the Casses can do as they like with their land. 
Remember that, sir. Let Dunsey have the money! 
Why should you let Dunsey have the money? There’s 
some lie at the bottom of it.” 

20 “There’s no lie, sir,” said Godfrey. “I wouldn’t 
have spent the money myself, but Dunsey bothered 
me, and I was a fool and let him have it. But I 
meant to pay it whether he did or not. That’s the 
whole story. I never meant to emjbezzle money, and 
25 I’m not the man to do it. You never knew me do 
a dishonest trick, sir.” 

“Where’s Dunsey, then? What do you stand talking 
there for? Go and fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and 
let him give account of what he wanted the money for, 
30 and what he’s done with it. He shall repent it. I’ll 
turn him out. I said I would, and I’ll do it. He 

shan’t brave me. Go and fetch him.” 

“Dunsey isn’t come back, sir.” 


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“What! did he break his own neck, then?” said the 
Squire with some disgust at the idea that, in that case, 
he could not fulfill his threat. 

“No, he wasn’t hurt, I believe, for the horse was 
found dead, and Dunsey must have walked off. I dare 
say we shall see him again by and by. I don’t know 
where he is.” 

“And what must you be letting him have my money 
for ? Answer me that,” said the Squire, attacking 
Godfrey again, since Dunsey was not within reach. 

“Well, sir, I don’t know,” said Godfrey hesitatingly. 
That was a feeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of 
lying, and, not being sufficiently aware that no sort of 
duplicity can long flourish without the help of vocal false- 
hoods, he was quite unprepared with invented motives. 

“You don’t know? I tell you what it is, sir. You’ve 
been up to some trick, and you’ve been bribing him not 
to tell,” said the Squire with a sudden acuteness which 
startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat violently at 
the nearness of his father’s guess. The sudden alarm 
pushed him on to take the next step — a very slight im- 
pulse suffices for that on a dowmward road. 

“Why, sir,” he said, trying to speak with careless 
ease, “it was a little affair between me and Dunsey; 
it’s no matter to anybody else. It’s hardly worth 
while to pry into young men’s fooleries: it wouldn’t 
have made any difference to you, sir, if I’d not had the 
bad luck to lose Wildfire. I should have paid you the 
money.” 

“Fooleries! Pshaw! it’s time you’d done with 
fooleries. And I’d have you know, sir, you must ha’ 
done with ’em,” said the Squire, frowning and casting 
an angry glance at his son. “Your goings-on are not 


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what I shall find money for any longer. There’s my 
grandfather had his stables full o’ horses, and kept a 
good house^ too, and in worse times, by what I can make 
out; and so might I, if I hadn’t four good for nothing 
5 fellows to hang on me like horse-leeches. I’ve been too 
good a father to you all — that’s what it is. But I shall 
pull up, sir.” 

Godfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very 
penetrating in his judgments, but he had always had 
10 a sense that his father’s indulgence had not been kind- 
ness, and had had a vague longing for some discipline 
that would have checked his own errant weakness and 
helped his better will. The Squire ate his bread and 
meat hastily, took a deep draught of ale, then turned his 
15 chair from the table, and began to speak again. 

“It’ll be all the worse for you, you know — you’d need 
try and help me keep things together.” 

“Well, sir, I’ve often offered to take the management 
of things, but you know you’ve taken it ill always, and 
20 seemed to think I wanted to push you out of your 
place.” 

“I know nothing o’ your offering or o’ my taking 
it ill,” said the Squire, whose memory consisted in 
certain strong impressions unmodified by detail; “but 
25 I know one while you seemed to be thinking o’ mar- 
rying, and I didn’t offer to put any obstacles in your 
way, as some fathers would. I’d as lieve you married 
Lammeter’s daughter as anybody. I suppose if I’d 
said you nay, you’d ha’ kept on with it; but for want 
30 o’ contradiction you’ve changed your mind. You’re 
a shilly-shally fellow: you take after your poor mother. 
She never had a will of her own; a woman has no call 
for one, if she’s got a proper man for her husband. 


SILAS MARNER 


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But your wife had need have one, for you hardly know 
your own mind enough to make both your legs walk one 
way. The lass hasn’t said downright she won’t have 
you, has she?” 

“No,” said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncom- 
fortable; “but I don’t think she will.” 

“Think! why haven’t you the courage to ask her? 
Do you stick to it, you want to have her — that’s the 
thing?” 

“There’s no other woman I want to marry,” said 
Godfrey evasively. 

“Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that’s 
all, if you haven’t the pluck to do it yourself. Lam- 
meter isn’t likely to be loath for his daughter to marry 
into my family, 1 should think. And as for the pretty 
lass, she wouldn’t have her cousin — and there’s nobody 
else, as I see, could ha’ stood in your way.” 

“I’d rather let it be, please sir, at present,” said 
Godfrey, in alarm. “I think she’s a little offended 
with me just now, and I should like to speak for my- 
self. A man must manage these things for himself.” 

“Well, speak then and manage it, and see if you 
can’t turn over a new leaf. That’s what a man must 
do when he thinks o’ marrying.” 

“I don’t see how I can think of it at present, sir. 
You wouldn’t like to settle me on one of the farms, I 
suppose, and I don’t think she’d come to live in this 
house with all my brothers. It’s a different sort of 
life to what she’s been used to.” 

“Not come to live in this house? Don’t tell me. 
You ask her, that’s all,” said the Squire, with a short, 
scornful laugh. 

“I’d rather let the thing be at present, sir,” said 


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Godfrey. “I hope you won’t try to hurry it on by say- 
ing anything.” 

“I shall do what I choose/’ said the Squire, “and 
I shall let you know I’m master; else you may turn 
5 out and find an estate to drop into somewhere else. 
Go out and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox’s, but wait 
for me. And tell ’em to get my horse saddled. And, 
stop: look out and get that hack o’ Dunsey’s sold, 
and hand me the money, will you? He’ll keep no 
10 more hacks at my expense. And if you know where 
he’s sneaking — I dare say you do — you may tell him to 
spare himself the journey o’ coming back home. Let 
him turn ostler and keep himself. He shan’t hang on 
me any more.” 

15 “I don’t know where he is; and if I did, it isn’t 
my place to tell him to keep away,” said Godfrey, mov- 
ing towards the door. 

“Confound it, sir, don’t stay arguing, but go and 
order my horse,” said the Squire, taking up a pipe. 

20 Godfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he 
were more relieved by the sense that the interview was 
ended without having made any change in his position, 
or more uneasy that he had entangled himself still 
further in prevarication and deceit. What had passed 
25 about his proposing to Nancy had raised a new alarm, 
lest by some after-dinner words of his father’s to Mr. 
Lammeter he should be thrown into the embarrassment 
of being obliged absolutely to decline her when she 
seemed to be within his reach. He fled to his usual 
30 refuge, that of hoping for some unforeseen turn of for- 
tune, some favorable chance which would save him from 
unpleasant consequences — perhaps even justify his in- 
sincerity by manifesting its prudence. 


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In this point of trusting to some throw of fortuned 
dice, Godfrey can hardly be called old-fashioned. 
Favorable Chance is the god of all men who follow 
their own devices instead of obeying a law they be- 
lieve in. Let even a polished man of these days get 
into a position he is ashamed to avow, and his mind 
will be bent on all the possible issues that may deliver 
him from the calculable results of that position. Let 
him live outside his income, or shirk the resolute 
honest work that brings wages, and he will presently 
find himself dreaming of a possible benefactor, a pos- 
sible simpleton who may be cajoled into using his 
interest, a possible state of mind in some possible per- 
son not yet forthcoming. Let him neglect the respon- 
sibilities of his office, and he will inevitably anchor 
himself on the chance, that the thing left undone may 
turn out not to be of the supposed importance. Let 
him betray his friend’s confidence, and he will adore 
that same cunning complexity called Chance, which 
gives him the hope that his friend will never know. 
Let him forsake a decent craft that he may pursue 
the gentilities of a profession to which nature never 
called him, and his religion will infallibly be the wor- 
ship of blessed Chance, which he will believe in as the 
mighty creator of success. The evil principle depre- 
cated in that religion is the orderly sequence by which 
the seed brings forth a crop after its kind. 

CHAPTER X 

Justice Malam was naturally regarded in Tarley 
and Raveloe as a man of capacious mind, seeing that 
he could draw much wider conclusions without evidence 


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than could be expected of his neighbors who were not 
on the Commission of the Peace. Such a man was 
not likely to neglect the clue of the tinder-box, and an 
inquiry was set on foot concerning a pedlar, name un- 
5 known, with curly black hair and a foreign complexion, 
carrying a box of cutlery and jewelry, and wearing 
large rings in his ears. But either because inquiry was 
too slow-footed to overtake him, or because the descrip- 
tion applied to so many pedlars that inquiry did not 
10 know how to choose among them, weeks passed away, 
and there was no other result concerning the robbery 
than a gradual cessation of the excitement it had caused 
in Raveloe. Dunstan Cass’s absence was hardly a sub- 
ject of remark: he had once before had a quarrel with 
15 his father, and had gone off, nobody knew whither, to 
return at the end of six weeks, take up his old quarters 
unforbidden, and swagger as usual. His own family, 
who equally expected this issue, with the sole difference 
that the Squire was determined this time to forbid him 
20 the old quarters, never mentioned his absence, and 
when his uncle Kimble or Mr. Osgood noticed it, the 
story of his having killed Wildfire, and committed 
some offence against his father, was enough to prevent 
surprise. To connect the fact of Dunsey’s disappear- 
25 ance with that of the robbery occurring on the same 
day, lay quite away from the track of every one’s 
thought — even Godfrey’s, who had better reason than 
any one else to know what his brother was capable of. 
He remembered no mention of the weaver between them 
30 since the time, twelve years ago, when it was their 
boyish sport to deride him ; and, besides, his imagination 
constantly created an alibi for Dunstan: he saw him 
continually in some congenial haunt, to which he had 


SILAS MARNER 


117 


walked off on leaving Wildfire — saw him sponging on 
chance acquaintances, and meditating a return home to 
the old amusement of tormenting his elder brother. Even 
if any brain in Raveloe had put the said two facts to- 
gether, I doubt whether a combination so injurious to 5 
the prescriptive respectability of a family with a mural 
monument and venerable tankards would not have been 
suppressed as of unsound tendency. But Christmas 
puddings, brawn, and abundance of spirituous liquors, 
throwing the mental originality into the channel of night- 10 
mare, are great preservatives against a dangerous 
spontaneity of waking thought. 

When the robbery was talked of at the Rainbow 
and elsewhere, in good company, the balance continued 
to waver between the rational explanation founded on 15 
the tinder-box and the theory of an impenetrable 
mystery that mocked investigation. The advocates of 
the tinder-box-and-pedlar view considered the other side 
a muddle-headed and credulous set, who, because they 
themselves were wall-eyed, supposed everybody else to 20 
have the same blank outlook; and the adherents of the 
inexplicable more than hinted that their antagonists 
were animals inclined to crow before they had found 
any corn, — mere skimming-dishes in point of depth, — 
whose clear-sightedness consisted in supposing there 25 
was nothing behind a barn-door because they couldn’t 
see through it; so that, though their controversy did 
not serve to elicit the fact concerning the robbery, it 
elicited some true opinions of collateral importance. 

But while poor Silas’s loss served thus to brush the 30 
slow current of Raveloe conversation, Silas himself was 
feeling the withering desolation of that bereavement 
about which his neighbors were arguing at their ease. 


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To any one who had observed him before he lost his 
gold it might have seemed that so withered and shrunken 
a life as his could hardly be susceptible of a bruise, 
could hardly endure any subtraction but such as would 
5 put an end to it altogether. But in reality it had been 
an eager life, filled with immediate purpose, which 
fenced him in from the wide, cheerless unknown. It 
had been a clinging life; and though the object round 
which its fibres had clung was a dead disrupted thing, 
10 it satisfied the need for clinging. But now the fence 
was broken down — the support was snatched away. 
Marner’s thoughts could no longer move in their old 
round, and were baffled by a blank like that which meets 
a plodding ant when the earth has broken away on its 
15 homeward path. The loom was there, and the weaving, 
and the growing pattern in the cloth; but the bright 
treasure in the hole under his feet was gone; the pros- 
pect of handling and counting it was gone; the evening 
had no phantasm of delight to still the poor soul’s crav- 
20 ing. The thought of the money he would get by his 
actual work could bring no joy, for its meagre image 
was only a fresh reminder of his loss; and hope was too 
heavily crushed by the sudden blow for his imagination 
to dwell on the growth of a new hoard from that small 
25 ~ beginning. 

He filled up the blank with grief. As he sat weav- 
ing, he every now and then moaned low, like one in 
pain: it was the sign that his thoughts had come round 
again to the sudden chasm — to the empty evening time. 
30 And all the evening, as he sat in his loneliness by his 
dull fire, he leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped 
his head with his hands, and moaned very low— not as 
one who seeks to be heard. 


SILAS MARNER 


119 


And yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble. 
The repulsion Marner had always created in his neigh- 
bors was partly dissipated by the new light in which 
this misfortune had shown him. Instead of a man who 
had more cunning than honest folks could come by, and, 5 
what was worse, had not the inclination to use that 
cunning in a neighborly way, it was now apparent that 
Silas had not cunning enough to keep his own. He w r as 
generally spoken of as a “poor mushed creatur;” and 
that avoidance of his neighbors, which had before been jq 
referred to his ill-will, and to a probable addiction to 
worse company, was now considered mere craziness. 

This change to a kindlier feeling was shown in various 
ways. The odor of Christmas cooking being on the 
wind, it was the season when superfluous pork and black jg 
puddings are suggestive of charity in well to do families ; 
and Silas’s misfortune had brought him uppermost in 
the memory of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. 
Crackenthorp, too, while he admonished Silas that his 
money had probably been taken from him because he 20 
thought too much of it and never came to church, en- 
forced the doctrine by a present of pigs’ pettitoes, well 
calculated to dissipate unfounded prejudices against the 
clerical character. Neighbors, who had nothing but 
verbal consolation to give, showed a disposition not only 2 g 
to greet Silas, and discuss his misfortune at some length 
when they encountered him in the village, but also to 
take the trouble of calling at his cottage, and getting 
him to repeat all the details on the very spot; and then 
they would try to cheer him by saying, “Well, Master 
Marner, you’re no worse off nor other poor folks, after 
all; and if you was to be crippled, the narish ’ud give 
you a ’lowance.” 


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I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to 
comfort our neighbors with our words is that our good- 
will gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it 
can pass our lips. We can send black puddings and 
5 pettitoes without giving them a flavor of our own egoism ; 
but language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of 
a mingled soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness 
in Raveloe; but it was often of a beery and bungling 
sort, and took the shape least allied to the complimen- 
10 tary and hypocritical. 

Mr. Macey, for example, coming one evening expressly 
to let Silas know that recent events had given him the 
advantage of standing more favorably in the opinion of 
a man whose judgment was not formed lightly, opened 
25 the conversation by saying, as soon as he had seated 
himself and adjusted his thumbs, — 

“Come, Master Marner, why, you’ve no call to sit 
a-moaning. You’re a deal better off to ha’ lost your 
money, nor to ha’ kep’ it by foul means. I used to 
20 think, when you first come into these parts, as you 
were no better nor you should be; you were younger 
a deal than what you are now; but you were allays 
a staring, white-faced creatur, partly like a bald-faced 
calf, as I may say. But there’s no knowing: it isn’t 
25 every queer-looksed thing as Old Harry’s had the making 
of- — I mean, speaking o’ toads and such ; for they’re often 
harmless, and useful against varmin. And it’s pretty 
much the same wi’ you, as fur as I can see. Though as 
to the yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing, if you 
30 brought that sort o’ knowledge from distant parts, you 
might ha’ been a bit freer of it. And if the knowledge 
wasn’t well come by, why, you might ha’ made up for it 
by coming to church reg’lar; for, as for the children as 


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the Wise Woman charmed, I’ve been at the christening 
of ’em again and again, and they took the water just as 
well. And that’s reasonable ; for if Old Harry’s a mind 
to do a bit o’ kindness for a holiday, like, who’s got any- 
thing against it? That’s my thinking; and I’ve been 
clerk o’ this parish forty year, and I know, when the 
parson and me does the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, 
there’s no cussing o’ folks as have a mind to be cured 
without a doctor, let Kimble say what he will. And so, 
Master Marner, as I was saying — for there’s windings i* 
things as they may carry you to the fur end o’ the 
prayer-book afore you get back to ’em — my advice 
is, as you keep up your sperrits; for as for thinking 
you’re a deep un, and ha’ got more inside you nor ’ull 
bear daylight, I’m not o’ that opinion at all, and so I 
tell the . neighbors. For, says I, you talk o’ Master 
Marner making out a tale — why, it’s nonsense, that 
is: it ’ud take a ’cute man to make a tale like that; 
and, says I, he looked as scared as a rabbit.” 

During this discursive address Silas had continued 
motionless in his previous attitude, leaning his elbows 
on his knees, and pressing his hands against his head. 
Mr. Macey, not doubting -that he had been listened to, 
paused, in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, 
but Marner remained silent. He had a sense that the 
old man meant to be good-natured and neighborly ; 
but the kindness fell on him as sunshine falls on the 
wretched — he had no heart to taste it, and felt that 
it was very far off him. 

“Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to 
say to that?” said Mr. Macey at last, with a slight 
accent of impatience. , , 

“Oh,” said Marner, slowly, shaking his head be- 


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tween liis, hands, “I thank „ you — thank you — kindly.” 

“Ay, ay, to be sure; I thought you would,” said 
Mr. Macey; “and my advice is — have you got a 
Sunday suit?” 

5 “No,” said Marner. 

“I doubted it was so,” said Mr. Macey. “Now, 
let me advise you to get a Sunday suit; there’s Too- 
key, he’s a poor creatur, but he’s got my tailoring 
business, and some o’ my money in it, and he shall 
10 make a suit at a low price, and give you trust, and 
then you can come to church, and be a bit neighborly. 
Why, you’ve never heard me say ‘Amen’ since you 
come into these parts, and I recommend you to lose 
no time, for it’ll be poor work when Tookey has it all 
15 to himself, for I mayn’t be equal to stand i’ the desk 
at all come another winter.” Here Mr. Macey* paused, 
perhaps expecting some sign of emotion in his hearer, 
but not observing any, he went on. “And as for the 
money for the suit o’ clothes, why, you get a matter 
20 of a pound a week at your weaving, Master Marner, 
and you’re a young man, eh?, for all you look so mushed. 
Why, you couldn’t ha’ been five and twenty when you 
come into these parts, eh?” 

Silas started a little at the change to a questioning 
25 tone, and answered mildly, “I don’t know ; I can’t rightly 
say — it’s a long while since.” 

After receiving such an answer as this it is not 
surprising that Mr. Macey observed, later on in the 
evening at the Rainbow, that Marner’s head was “all 
3 q of a muddle,” and that it was to be doubted if he ever 
knew when Sunday came around, which showed him a 
worse heathen than many a dog. 

Another of Silas’s comforters, besides Mr. Macey, 


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came to him with a mind highly charged on the same 
topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the wheelwright’s wife. 
The inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely regular 
in their church-going, and perhaps there was hardly a 
person in the parish who would not have held that 
to go to church every Sunday in the calendar would 
have shown a greedy desire to stand well with Heaven, 
and get an undue advantage over their neighbors — 
a wish to be better than the “common run,” that would 
have implied a reflection on those who had had god- 
fathers and godmothers as well as themselves, and had 
an equal right to the burying-service. At the same 
time, it was understood to be requisite for all who were 
not household servants, or young men, to take the sacra- 
ment at one of the great festivals; Squire Cass himself 
took it on Christmas Day; while those who were held 
to be “good livers” went to church with greater, though 
still with moderate, frequency. 

Mrs. Winthrop was one of these: she was in all re- 
spects a woman of scrupulous conscience, so eager for 
duties that life seemed to offer them too scantily unless 
she rose at half-past four, though this threw a, scarcity 
of work over the more advanced hours of the morning, 
which it was a constant problem with her to remove. 
Yet she had not the vixenish temper which is sometimes 
supposed to be a necessary condition of such habits: she 
was a very mild, patient woman, whose nature it was to 
seek out all the sadder and more serious elements of 
life, and pasture her mind upon them. She was the per- 
son always first thought of in Raveloe when there was 
illness or death in a family, when leeches were to be 
applied, or there was a sudden disappointment in a 
monthly nurse. She was a “comfortable woman” — 


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good-looking, fresh-complexioned, having her lips always 
slightly screwed, as if she felt herself in a sick-room 
with the doctor or the clergj'man present. But she was 
never whimpering; no one had seen her shed tears; she 
5 was simply grave and inclined to shake her head and 
sigh, almost imperceptibly, like a funereal mourner who 
is not a relation. It seemed surprising that Ben Win- 
throp, who loved his quart-pot and his joke, got along so 
well with Dolly; but she took her husband’s jokes and 
joviality as patiently as everything else, considering 
that “men would be so,” and viewing the stronger sex 
in the light of animals whom it had pleased Heaven 
to make naturally troublesome, like bulls and turkey- 
cocks. 

15 This good wholesome woman could hardly fail to 
have her mind dra^n strongly towards Silas Marner, 
now that he appeared in the light of a sufferer; and 
one Sunday afternoon she took her little boy Aaron 
with her, and went to call on Silas, carrying in her 
20 hand some small lard-cakes, flat paste-like articles, much 
esteemed in Raveloe. Aaron, an apple-cheeked young- 
ster of seven, with a clean starched frill, which looked 
like a plate for the apples, needed all his adventurous 
curiosity to embolden him against the possibility that 
25 the big-eyed weaver might do him some bodily injury; 
and his dubiety was much increased when, on arriving 
at the Stone-pits, they heard the mysterious sound of 
the loom. 

“Ah, it is as I thought,” said Mrs. Winthrop sadly. 

30 They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them, 
but when he did come to the door he showed no im- 
patience, as he would once have done, at a visit that 
had been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly, his 


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heart had been as a locked casket with its treasure in- 
side; but now the casket was empty, and the lock was 
broken. Left groping in darkness, with his prop ut- 
terly gone, Silas had inevitably a sense, though a dull 
and half-despairing one, that if any help came to him 
it must come from without; and there was a slight 
stirring of expectation at the sight of his fellow-men, 
a faint consciousness of dependence on their good-will. 
He opened the door wide to admit Dolly, but without 
otherwise returning her greeting than by moving the 
armchair a few inches as a sign that she was to sit 
down in it. Dolly, as soon as she was seated, removed 
the white cloth that covered her lard-cakes, and said 
in her gravest way, — 

“I’d a baking yisterday, Master Marner, and the 
lard-cakes turned out better nor common, and I’d ha* 
asked you to accept some if you’d thought well. I 
don’t eat such things myself, for a bit o’ bread’s what 
I like from one year’s end to the other, but men’s 
stomichs are made so comical they want a change — 
they do, I know, God help ’em.” 

Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to 
Silas, who thanked her kindly, and looked very close 
at them, absently, being accustomed to look so at every- 
thing he took into his hand — eyed all the while by the 
wondering bright orbs of the small Aaron, who had made 
an outwork of his mother’s chair, and was peeping round 
from behind it. 

“There’s letters pricked on ’em,” said Dolly. “I 
can’t read ’em myself, and there’s nobody, not Mr. 
Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but 
they’ve a good meaning, for they’re the same as is on 
the pulpit-cloth at church. What are they^ Aaron, my 
dear?” 


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Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork. 

“Oh, go, that’s naughty,” said his mother mildly. 
“Well, whativer the letters are, they’ve a good mean- 
ing; and it’s a stamp as has been in our house, Ben 
5 says, ever since he was a little un, and his mother used 
to put it on the cakes, and I’ve allays put it on too; 
for if there’s any good, we’ve need of it i’ this world.” 

“It’s I. H. S.,” said Silas, at which proof of learn- 
ing Aaron peeped round the chair again. 

10 “Well, to be sure, you can read ’em off,” said Dolly. 
“Ben’s read ’em to me many and many a time, but they 
slip out o’ my mind again; the more’s the pity, 
for they’re good letters, else they wouldn’t be in the 
church; and so I prick ’em on all the loaves and all 
15 the cakes, though sometimes they won’t hold because 
o’ the rising — for, as I said, if there’s any good to be 
got we’ve need of it i’ this world — that we have, and 
I hope they’ll bring good to you, Master Marner, for 
it’s wi’ that will I brought you the cakes, and you see 
20 the letters have held better nor common.” 

Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, 
but there was no possibility of misunderstanding the 
desire to give comfort that made itself heard in her 
quiet tones. He said, with more feeling than before, 
25 “Thank you — thank you kindly.” But he laid down 
the cakes and seated himself absently — drearily un- 
conscious of any distinct benefit towards which the 
cakes and the letters, or even Dolly’s kindness, could 
tend for him. 

30 “Ah, if there’s good anywhere, we’ve need of it,” 
repeated Dolly, who did not lightly forsake a service- 
able phrase. She looked at Silas pityingly as she went 


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on. “But you didn’t hear the church-bells this morn- 
ing, Master Marner? I doubt you didn’t know it was 
Sunday. Living so lone here, you lose your count, I 
daresay; and then, when your loom makes a noise, you 
can’t hear the bells, more partic’lar now the frost kills 
the sound.” 

“Yes, I did; I heard ’em,” said Silas, to whom Sun- 
day bells were a mere accident of the day, and not part 
of its sacredness. There had been no bells in Lantern 
Yard. 

“Dear heart !” said Dolly, pausing before she spoke 
again. “But what a pity it is you should work of a 
Sunday, and not clean yourself, — if you didn’t go to 
church; for if you’d a roasting bit, it might be as you 
couldn’t leave it, being a lone man. But there’s the 
bakehus, if you would make up your mind to spend 
a twopence on the oven now and then, — not every week, 
in course — I shouldn’t like to do that myself, — you 
might carry your bit o’ dinner there, for it’s nothing 
but right to have a bit o’ summat hot of a Sunday, 
and not to make it as you can’t know your dinner from 
Saturday. But now, upo’ Christmas Day, this blessed 
Christmas as is ever coming, if you was to take your 
dinner to the bakehus, and go to church, and see the 
holly and the yew, and hear the anthim, and then take 
the sacramen’, you’d be a deal the better, and you’d 
know which end you stood on, and you could put your 
trust i’ Them as knows better nor we do, seein’ you’d 
ha’ done what it lies on us all to do.” 

Dolly’s exhortation, which was an unusually long 
effort of speech for her, was uttered in the soothing 
persuasive tone with which she would have tried to 
prevail on a sick man to take his medicine or a basin 


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of gruel for which he had no appetite. Silas had never 
before been closely urged on the point of his absence 
from church, which had only been thought of as a part 
of his general queerness; and he was too direct and 
5 simple to evade Dolly’s appeal. 

“Nay, nay,” he said, “I know nothing o’ church. 
I’ve never been to church.” 

“No!” said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. 
Then bethinking herself of Silas’s advent from an un- 
known country, she said, “Could it ha’ been as they’d 
no church where you was born?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Silas meditatively, sitting in his usual 
posture of leaning on his knees and supporting his head. 
“There was churches — a many — it was a big town. But 
25 I knew nothing of ’em — I went to chapel.” 

Dolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she 
was rather afraid of inquiring further, lest “chapel” 
might mean some haunt of wickedness. After a little 
thought, she said, — 

2q “Well, Master Marner, it’s niver too late to turn 
over a new leaf, and if you’ve niver had no church, 
there’s no telling the good it’ll do you. For I feel 
so set up and comfortable as niver was when I’ve been 
and heard the prayers, and the singing to the praise and 
25 glory o’ God, as Mr. Macey gives out — and Mr. Crack- 
enthorp saying good words, and more partic’lar on 
Sacramen’ Day; and if a bit o’ trouble comes, I feel as 
I can put up wi’ it, for I’ve looked for help i’ the right 
quarter, and gev myself up to Them as we must all give 
gQ ourselves up to at the last; and if we’n done our part, 
it isn’t to be believed as Them as are above us ’ull be 
worse nor we are, and come short o’ Their’n.” 

Poor Dolly’s exposition of her simple Raveloe theology 


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fell rather unmeaningly on Silas’s ears, for there was no 
word in it that could rouse a memory of what he had 
known as religion, and his comprehension was quite 
baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy of 
Dolly’s, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous 
familiarity. He remained silent, not feeling inclined 
to assent to the part of Dolly’s speech which he fully 
understood — her recommendation that he should go to 
church. Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk 
beyond the brief questions and answers necessary for 
the transaction of his simple business that words did 
not easily come to him without the urgency of a distinct 
purpose. 

But now, little Aaron, having become used to the 
weaver’s awful presence, had advanced to his mother’s 
side, and Silas, seeming to notice him for the first time, 
tried to return Dolly’s signs of good-will by offering the 
lad a bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a little, and 
rubbed his head against his mother’s shoulder, but still 
thought the piece of cake worth the risk of putting his 
hand out for it. 

“Oh, for shame, Aaron,” said his mother, taking him 
on her lap, however; “why, you don’t want cake again 
yet awhile. He’s wonderful hearty,” she went on, with 
a little sigh; “that he is, God knows. He’s my young- 
est, and we spoil him sadly, for either me or the father 
must allays hev him in our sight — that we must.” 

She stroked Aaron’s brown head, and thought it must 
do Master Marner good to see such a “pictur of a 
child.” But Marner, on the other side of the hearth, 
saw the neat-featured rosy face as a mere dim round, 
with two dark spots in it. 

“And he’s got a voice like a bird — you wouldn’t 


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think/' Dolly went on; “he can sing a Christmas carril 
as his father’s taught him; and I take it for a token as 
he’ll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so 
quick. Come Aaron, stan’ up and sing the carril to 
5 Master Marner, come.” 

Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his 
mother’s shoulder. 

“Oh, that’s naughty,” said Dolly gently. “Stan’ up, 
when mother tells you, and let me hold the cake till 
10 you ’ve done.” 

Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even 
to an ogre, under protecting circumstances; and after 
a few more signs of coyness, consisting chiefly in rub- 
bing the backs of his hands over his eyes, and then 
15 peeping between them at Master Marner to see if he 
looked anxious for the “carril,” he at length allowed 
his head to be duly adjusted, and standing behind the 
table which let him appear above it only as far as his 
broad frill, so that he looked like a cherubic head un- 
20 troubled wdth a body, he began with a clear chirp and 
in a melody that had the rhythm of an industrious 
hammer, — 

“God rest you, merry gentlemen, 

Let nothing you dismay, 

For Jesus Christ our Saviour 

Was born on Christmas Day.’’ 

Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marner 
in some confidence that this strain would help to allure 
25 him to church. 

“That’s Christmas music,” she said, when Aaron had 
ended and had secured his piece of cake again. “There’s 
no other music equil to the Christmas music — ‘Hark 
the erol angils sing.’ And you may judge what it is 


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at church, Master Marner, with the bassoon and the 
voices, as you can’t help thinking you’ve got to a better 
place a’ready — for I wouldn’t speak ill o’ this world, 
seeing as Them put us in it as knows best; but what 
wi’ the drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad illnesses, 
and the hard dying, as I’ve seen times and times, one’s 
thankful to hear of a better. The boy sings pretty, 
don’t he, Master Marner?” 

“Yes,” said Silas absently, “very pretty.” 

The Christmas carol, with its hammer-like rhythm, 
had fallen on his ears as strange music, quite unlike a 
hymn, and could have none of the effect Dolly con- 
templated. But he wanted to show her that he was 
grateful, and the only mode that occurred to him was 
to offer Aaron a bit more cake. 

“Oh, no, thank you, Master Marner,” said Dolly, 
holding down Aaron’s willing hands. “We must be 
going home now. And so I wish you good-by, Master 
Marner; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your in- 
side, as you can’t fend for yourself, I’ll come and clean 
up for you, and get you a bit o’ victual, and willing. 
But I beg and pray of you to leave off weaving of a 
Sunday, for it’s bad for soul and body — and the money 
as comes i’ that way ’ull be a bad bed to lie down on 
at the last, if it doesn’t fly away, nobody knows where, 
like the white frost. And you’ll excuse me being that 
free with you, Master Marner, for I wish you well — 
I do. Make your bow, Aaron.” 

Silas said “Good-by, and thank you kindly,” as he 
opened the door for Dolly, but he couldn’t help feeling 
relieved when she was gone — relieved that he might 
weave again and moan at his ease. Her simple view 
of life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer 


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him, was only like a report of unknown objects, which 
his imagination could not fashion. The fountain of 
human love and of faith in a divine love had not yet 
been unlocked, and his soul was still the shrunken 
5 rivulet, with only this difference, that its little groove 
of sand was blocked up, and it wandered confusedly 
against dark obstruction. 

And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of 
Mr. Macey and Dolly Winthrop, Silas spent his Christ- 
10 mas Day in loneliness, eating his meat in sadness of 
heart, though the meat had come to him as a neighborly 
present. In the morning he looked out on the black 
frost that seemed to press cruelly on every blade of 
grass, while the half-icy red pool shivered under the 
15 bitter wind ; but towards evening the snow began to fall, 
and curtained from him that dreary outlook, shutting 
him close up with narrow grief. And he sat in his 
robbed home through the livelong evening, not caring to 
close his shutters or lock his door, pressing his head 
20 between his hands and moaning, till the cold grasped 
him and told him that his fire was gray. 

Nobody in this world but himself knew that he was 
the same Silas Marner who had once loved his fellow 
with tender love, and trusted in an unseen goodness. 
25 Even to himself that past experience had become dim. 

But in Raveloe village the bells rang merrily, and 
the church was fuller than all through the rest of the 
year, with red faces among the abundant dark green 
boughs — faces prepared for a longer service than usual 
30 by an odorous breakfast of toast and ale. Those green 
boughs, the hymn and anthem never heard but at Christ- 
mas — even the Athanasian Creed, which was discrimi- 
nated from the others only as being longer and of 


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exceptional virtue, since it was only read on rare oc- 
casions — brought a vague exulting sense, for which the 
grown men could as little have found words as the 
children, that something great and mysterious had been 
done for them in heaven above, and in earth below, 
which they were appropriating by their presence. And 
then the red faces made their way through the black 
biting frost to their own homes, feeling themselves free 
for the rest of the day to eat, drink, and be merry, and 
using that Christmas freedom without diffidence. 

At Squire Cass’s family party that day nobody men- 
tioned Dunstan — nobody was sorry for his absence, or 
feared it would be too long. The doctor and his wife, 
uncle and aunt Kimble, were there, and the annual 
Christmas talk was carried through without any omis- 
sions, rising to the climax of Mr. Kimble’s experience 
when he walked the London hospitals thirty years back, 
together with striking professional anecdotes then 
gathered. Whereupon cards followed, with aunt Kim- 
ble’s annual failure to follow suit, and uncle Kimble’s 
irascibility concerning the odd trick which was rarely 
explicable to him, when it was not on his side, without 
a general visitation of tricks to see that they were formed 
on sound principles; the whole being accompanied by 
a strong steaming odor of spirits-and-water. 

But the party on Christmas Day, being a strictly 
family party, was not the pre-eminently brilliant cele- 
bration of the season at the Red House. It was the 
great dance on New Year’s Eve that made the glory 
of Squire Cass’s hospitality, as of his forefathers’, time 
out of mind. This was the occasion when all the society 
of Raveloe and Tarley, whether old acquaintances sepa- 
rated by long rutty distances, or cooled acquaintances 


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separated by misunderstandings concerning runaway 
calves, or acquaintances founded on intermittent con- 
descension, counted on meeting and on comporting them- 
selves with mutual appropriateness. This was the oc- 
5 casion on which fair dames who came on pillions sent 
their bandboxes before them, supplied with more than 
their evening costume; for the feast was not to end with 
a single evening, like a paltry town entertainment, where 
the whole supply of eatables is put on the table at once 
10 and bedding is scanty. The Red House was provisioned 
as if for a siege; and as for the spare feather-beds ready 
to be laid on floors, they were as plentiful as might natu- 
rally be expected in a family that had killed its own 
geese for many generations. 

15 Godfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year’s 
Eve with a foolish reckless longing that made him half 
deaf to his importunate companion, Anxiety. 

“Dunsey will be coming home soon; there will be 
a great blow T -up, and how will you bribe his spite to 
20 silence?” said Anxiety. 

“Oh, he won’t come home before New Year’s Eve, 
perhaps,” said Godfrey; “and I shall sit by Nancy 
then and dance with her, and get a kind look from 
her in spite of herself.” 

25 “But money is wanted in another quarter,” said 
Anxiety, in a louder voice, “and how will you get it 
without selling your mother’s diamond pin? And if 
you don’t get it. . .?” 

“Well, but something may happen to make things 
30 easier. At any rate, there’s one pleasure for me close 
at hand — Nancy is coming.” 

“Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters 


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to a pass that will oblige you to decline marrying her 
— and to give your reasons?” 

“Hold your tongue, and don’t worry me. I can see 
N ancy’s eyes, j ust as they will look at me, and feel 
her hand in mine already.” 5 

But Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas 
company, refusing to be utterly quieted even by much 
drinking. 

CHAPTER XI 

Some women, I grant, would not appear to advan- 
tage seated on a pillion, and attired in a drab joseph 10 
and a drab beaver bonnet, with a crown resembling a 
small stew-pan; for a garment suggesting a coachman’s 
greatcoat, cut out under an exiguity of cloth that 
would not allow of miniature capes, is not well adapted 
to conceal deficiencies of contour, nor is drab a color 15 
that will throw sallow cheeks into lively contrast. It 
was all the greater triumph to Miss Nancy Lammeter’s 
beauty that she looked thoroughly bewitching in that 
costume, as, seated on the pillion behind her tall, erect 
father, she held one arm round him, and looked down, 20 
with open-eyed anxiety, at the treacherous snow-covered 
pools and puddles, which sent up formidable splashings 
of mud under the stamp of Dobbin’s foot. A painter 
would, perhaps, have preferred her in those moments 
when she was free from self-consciousness; but certainly 25 
the bloom on her cheeks was at its highest point of con- 
trast with the surrounding drab when she arrived at the 
door of the Red House, and saw Mr. Godfrey Cass 
ready to lift her from the pillion. She wished her sister 
Priscilla had come up at the same time behind the ser- SO 
vant, for then she would have contrived that Mr. God- 


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frey should have lifted off Priscilla first, and, in the 
meantime, she would have persuaded her father to go 
round to the horseblock instead of alighting at the door- 
steps. It was very painful when you had made it quite 
5 clear to a young man that you were determined not to 
marry him, however much he might wish it, that he 
would still continue to pay you marked attentions; be- 
sides, why didn’t he always show the same attentions if 
he meant them sincerely, instead of being so strange as 
10 Mr. Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if he 
didn’t want to speak to her, and taking no notice of her 
for weeks and weeks, and then, all on a sudden, almost 
making love again ? Moreover, it was quite plain he had 
no real love for her, else he would not let people have 
15 that to say of him which they did say. Did he suppose 
that Miss Nancy Lammeter was to be w r on by any man, 
squire or no squire, who led a bad life? That was not 
what she had been used to see in her own father, who 
was the soberest and best man in that country-side, 
20 only a little hot and hasty now and then if things were 
not done to the minute. 

All these thoughts rushed through Miss Nancy’s 
mind, in their habitual succession, in the moments be- 
tween her first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass standing at 
25 the door and her own arrival there. Happily, the 
Squire came out too, and gave a loud greeting to her 
father, so that, somehow, under cover of this noise, 
she seemed to find concealment for her confusion and 
neglect of any suitably formal behavior while she was 
30 being lifted from the pillion by strong arms which seemed 
to find her ridiculously small and light. And there was 
the best reason for hastening into the house at once, 
since the snow was beginning to fall again, threatening 


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an unpleasant journey for such guests as were still on 
the road. These were a small minority; for already the 
afternoon was beginning to decline, and there would not 
be too much time for the ladies who came from a distance 
to attire themselves in readiness for the early tea which 
was to inspirit them for the dance. 

There was a buzz of voices through the house as 
Miss Nancy entered, mingled,, with the scrape of a 
fiddle preluding in the kitchen ; but the Lammeters 
were guests whose arrival had evidently been thought 
of so much that it had been watched for from the win- 
dows, for Mrs. Kimble, who did the honors at the Red 
House on these great occasions, came forward to meet 
Miss Nancy in the hall, and conduct her upstairs. 
Mrs. Kimble was the Squire’s sister, as well as the doc- 
tor’s wife — a double dignity, with which her diameter 
was in direct proportion; so that a journey upstairs 
being rather fatiguing to her, she did not oppose Miss 
Nancy’s request to be allowed to find her way alone 
to the Blue Room, where the Miss Lammeters’ band- 
boxes had been deposited on their arrival in the morn- 
ing. 

There was hardly a bedroom in the house where 
feminine compliments were not passing and feminine 
toilettes going forward, in various stages, in space 
made scanty by extra beds spread upon the floor; and 
Miss Nancy, as she entered the Blue Room, had to make 
her little formal curtsy to a group of six. On the one 
hand, there were ladies no less important than the two 
Miss Gunns, the wine merchant’s daughters from 
Lytherly, dressed in the height of fashion, with the 
tightest skirts and the shortest waists, and gazed at by 
Miss Ladbrook (of the Old Pastures) with a shyness 


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not unsustained by inward criticism. Partly, Miss Lad- 
brook felt that her own skirt must be regarded as 
unduly lax by the Miss Gunns, and partly, that it was 
a pity the Miss Gunns did not show that judgment 
5 which she herself would show if she were in their place, 
by stopping a little on this side of the fashion. On the 
other hand, Mrs. Ladbrook was standing in skull-cap 
and front, with her turban in her hand, curtsying and 
smiling blandly and saying, “After you, ma’am” to 
10 -another lady in similar circumstances, who had politely 
offered the precedence at the looking-glass. 

But Miss Nancy had no sooner made her curtsy than 
an elderly lady came forward, whose full white muslin 
kerchief and mob-cap round her curls of smooth gray 
15 hair were in daring contrast with the puffed yellow 
satins and top-knotted caps of her neighbors. She ap- 
proached Miss Nancy with much primness, and said, 
with a slow, treble suavity, — 

“Niece, I hope I see you well in health.” Miss 
20 'Nancy kissed her aunt’s cheek dutifully, and answered, 
with the same sort of amiable primness, “Quite well, 
I thank you, aunt, and I hope I see you the same.” 

“Thank you, niece; I keep my health for the present. 
And how is my brother-in-law?” 

25 These dutiful questions and answers were continued 
until it was ascertained in detail that the Lammeters 
were all as well as usual, and the Osgoods likewise, 
also that niece Priscilla must certainly arrive shortly, 
and that travelling on pillions in snowy weather was 
30 unpleasant, though a joseph was a great protection. 
Then Nancy was formally introduced to her aunt’s 
visitors, the Miss Gunns, as being the daughters of a 
mother known to their mother, though now for the 


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first time induced to make a journey into these parts; 
and these ladies were so taken by surprise at finding 
such a lovely face and figure in an out-of-the-way 
country place, that they began to feel some curiosity 
about the dress she would put on when she took off 
her joseph. Miss Nancy, whose thoughts were always 
conducted with the propriety and moderation conspic- 
uous in her manners, remarked to herself that the Miss 
Gunns were rather hard-featured than otherwise, and 
that such very low dresses as they wore might have been 
attributed to vanity if their shoulders had been pretty, 
but that, being as they were, it was not reasonable to 
suppose that they showed their necks from a love of 
display, but rather from some obligation not inconsistent 
with sense and modesty. She felt convinced, as she 
opened her box, that this must be her aunt Osgood’s 
opinion, for Miss Nancy’s mind resembled her aunt’s 
to a degree that everybody said was surprising, consider- 
ing the kinship was on Mr. Osgood’s side; and though 
you might not have supposed it from the formality of 
their greeting, there was a devoted attachment and 
mutual admiration between aunt and niece. Even Miss 
Nancy’s refusal of her cousin Gilbert Osgood (on the 
ground solely that he was her cousin), though it had 
grieved her aunt greatly, had not in the least cooled the 
preference which had determined her to leave Nancy 
several of her hereditary ornaments, let Gilbert’s future 
wife be whom she might. 

Three of the ladies quickly retired, but the Miss 
Gunns were quite content that Mrs. Osgood’s inclina- 
tion to remain with her niece gave them also a reason 
for staying to see the rustic beauty’s toilette. And it 
was really a pleasure — from the first opening of the 


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bandbox, where everything smelt of lavender and rose 
leaves, to the clasping of the small coral necklace that 
fitted closely round her little white neck. Everything 
belonging to Miss Nancy was of delicate purity and 
5 nattiness: not a crease was where it has no business 
to be, not a bit of her linen professed whiteness with- 
out fulfilling its profession; the very pins on her pin- 
cushion were stuck in after a pattern from which she 
was careful to allow no aberration; and as for her own 
10 person, it gave the same idea of perfect unvarying neat- 
ness as the body of a little bird. It is true that her 
light brown hair was cropped behind like a boy’s, and 
was dressed in front in a number of flat rings, that 
lay quite away from her face; but there was no sort of 
15 coiffure that could make Miss Nancy’s cheek and neck 
look otherwise than pretty; and when at last she stood 
complete in her silvery twilled silk, her lace tucker, 
her coral necklace, and coral ear-drops, the Miss Gunns 
could see nothing to criticise except her hands, which 
20 bore the traces of butter-making, cheese-crushing, and 
even still coarser work. But Miss Nancy was not 
ashamed of that, for while she was dressing she nar- 
rated to her aunt how she and Priscilla had packed their 
boxes yesterday, because this morning was baking morn- 
25 ing, and since they were leaving home, it was desirable 
to make a good supply of meat-pies for the kitchen; and 
as she concluded this judicious remark, she turned to 
the Miss Gunns that she might not commit the rudeness 
of not including them in the conversation. The Miss 
30 Gunns smiled stiffly, and thought what a pity it was 
that these rich country people, who could afford to buy 
such good clothes (really Miss Nancy’s lace and silk 
were very costly), should be brought up in utter igno- 


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ranee and vulgarity. She actually said “mate” for 
“meat,” “ ’appen” for “perhaps/’ and “ ’oss” for “horse/’ 
which, to 3 r oung ladies living in good Lytherly society, 
who habitually said ’orse, even in domestic privacy, and 
only said ’appen on the right occasions, was necessarily 
shocking. Miss Nancy, indeed, had never been to any 
school higher than Dame Tedman’s: her acquaintance 
with profane literature hardly went beyond the rhymes 
she had worked in her large sampler under the lamb 
and the shepherdess; and in order to balance an ac- 
count, she w’as obliged to effect her subtraction by re- 
moving visible metallic shillings and sixpences from a 
visible metallic total. There is hardly a servant-maid 
in these days who is not better informed than Miss 
Nancy; yet she had the essential attributes of a lady, 
— high veracity, delicate honor in her dealings, defer- 
ence to others, and refined personal habits, — and lest 
these should not suffice to convince grammatical fair ones 
that her feelings can at all resemble theirs, I will add 
that she was slightly proud and exacting, and as constant 
in her affection towards a baseless opinion as towards 
an erring lover. 

The anxiety about sister Priscilla, which had grown 
rather active by the time the coral necklace was clasped, 
was happily ended by the entrance of that cheerful- 
looking lady herself, with a face made blowsy by cold 
and damp. After the first questions and greetings, she 
turned to Nancy and surveyed her from head to foot — 
then wheeled her round, to ascertain that the back view 
was equally faultless. 

“What do you think o* these gowns, aunt Osgood?” 
said Priscilla, while Nancy helped her to unrobe. 

“Very handsome indeed, niece,” said Mrs. Osgood, 


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with a slight increase of formality. She always thought 
niece Priscilla too rough. 

“I’m obliged to have the same as Nancy, you know, 
for all I’m five years older, and it makes me look yallow; 
5 for she never will have anything without I have mine 
just like it, because she wants us to look like sisters. 
And I tell her folks ’ull think it’s my weakness makes 
me fancy as I shall look pretty in what she looks pretty 
in. For I am ugly — there’s no denying that: I feature 
1 q mj' father’s family. But, law! I don’t mind, do you?” 
Priscilla here turned to the Miss Gunns, rattling on in 
too much preoccupation with the delight of talking to 
notice that her candor was not appreciated. “The pretty 
uns do for fly-catchers — they keep the men off us. I’ve 
15 no opinion o’ the men, Miss Gunn — I don’t know what 
you have. And as for fretting and stewing about what 
they’ll think of you from morning till night, and making 
your life uneasy about what they’re doing when they’re 
out o’ your sight — as I tell Nancy, it’s a folly no woman 
20 need be guilty of, if she’s got a good father and a good 
home: let her leave it to them as have got no fortin, and 
can’t help themselves. As I say, Mr. Have-your-own- 
way is the best husband, and the only one I’d ever 
promise to obey. I know it isn’t pleasant, when you’ve 
25 been used to living in a big way, and managing hogs- 
heads and all that, to go and put your nose in by some- 
body else’s fireside, or to sit down by yourself to a 
scrag or a knuckle ; but, thank God ! my father’s a sober 
man and likely to live; and if you’ve got a man by the 
30 chimney-corner, it doesn’t matter if he’s childish — the 
business needn’t be broke up.” 

The delicate process of getting her narrow gown over 
her head without injury to her smooth curls obliged 


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Miss Priscilla to pause in this rapid survey of life, and 
Mrs. Osgood seized the opportunity of rising and say- 
ing— 

“Well, niece, you’ll follow us. The Miss Gunns will 
like to go down.” 

“Sister,” said Nancy, when they were alone, “you’ve 
offended the Miss Gunns, I’m sure.” 

“What have I done, child?” said Priscilla, in some 
alarm. 

“Why, you asked them if they minded about being 
ugly — you’re so very blunt.” 

“Law, did I? Well, it popped out; it’s a mercy I 
said no more, for I'm a bad un to live with folks when 
they don’t like the truth. But as for being ugly, look 
at me, child, in this silver-colored silk — I told you how 
it ’ud be — I look as yallow as a daffadil. Anybody ’ud 
say you wanted to make a mawkin of me.” 

“No, Priscy, don’t say so. I begged and prayed of 
you not to let us have this silk if you’d like another bet- 
ter. I was willing to have your choice, you know I was,” 
said Nancy, in anxious self-vindication. 

“Nonsense, child! you know you’d set your heart on 
this; and reason good, for you’re the color o’ cream. 
It ’ud be fine doings for you to dress yourself to suit my 
skin. What I find fault with is that notion o’ yours 
as I must dress myself just like you. But you do as 
you like with me — you always did from when first you 
begun to walk. If you wanted to go the field’s length, 
the field’s length you’d go; and there was no whipping 
you, for you looked as prim and innicent as a daisy all 
the while.” 

“Priscy,” said Nancy gently, as she fastened a coral 
necklace, exactly like her own, round Priscilla’s neck, 


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which was very far from being like her own, “I’m sure 
I’m willing to give way as far as is right, but who 
shouldn’t dress alike if it isn’t sisters? Would you have 
us go about looking as if we were no kin to one another — 
5 us that have got no mother and not another sister in the 
world? I’d do what was right, if I dressed in a gown 
dyed with cheesercoloring ; and I’d rather you’d choose, 
and let me wear what pleases you.” 

“There you go again! You’d come round to the same 
10 thing if one talked to you from Saturday night till 
Saturday morning. It’ll be fine fun to see how you’ll 
master your husband and never raise your voice above 
the singing o’ the kettle all the while. I like to see the 
men 'mastered !” 

15 “Don’t talk so, Priscy,” said Nancy, blushing. “You 
know I don’t mean ever to be married.” 

“Oh, you never mean a fiddlestick’s end!” said Pris- 
cilla, as she arranged her discarded dress, and closed 
her bandbox. “Who shall I have to work for when 
20 father’s gone, if you are to go and take notions in your 
head and be an old maid, because some folks are no 
better than they should be? I haven’t a bit o’ patience 
with you — sitting on an addled egg forever, as if there 
was never a fresh un in the world. One old -maid’s 
25 enough out o’ two sisters; and I shall do credit to a 
single life, for God A’mighty meant me for it. Come, 
we can go down now. I’m as ready as a mawkin can 
be — there’s nothing a-wanting to frighten the crows, now 
I’ve got my ear-droppers in.” 

30 j As the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large 
parlor together, any one who did not know the character 
of both might certainly have supposed that the reason 
why the square-shouldered, clumsy, high-featured Pris- 


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cilia wore a dress the facsimile of her pretty sister's was 
either the mistaken vanity of the one, or the malicious 
contrivance of the other in order to set off her own 
rare beauty. But the good-natured self-forgetful cheeri- 
ness and common sense of Priscilla would soon have 
dissipated the one suspicion; and the modest calm of 
Nancy’s speech and manners told clearly of a mind free 
from all disavowed devices. 

Places of honor had been kept for the Miss Lam- 
meters near the head of the principal tea-table in the 
wainscoted parlor, now looking fresh and pleasant with 
handsome branches of holly, yew, and laurel, from the 
abundant growths of the old garden; and Nancy felt an 
inward flutter, that no firmness of purpose could pre- 
vent, when she saw Mr. Godfrey Cass advancing to lead 
here to a seat between himself and Mr. Crackenthorp, 
while Priscilla was called to the opposite side between 
her father and the Squire. It certainly did make some 
difference to Nancy that the lover she had given up was 
the young man of quite the highest consequence in the 
parish — at home in a venerable and unique parlor, which 
was the extremity of grandeur in her experience, a par- 
lor where she might one day have been mistress, with 
the consciousness that she was spoken of as “Madam 
Cass," the Squire’s wife. These circumstances exalted 
her inward drama in her own eyes, and deepened the 
emphasis with which she declared to herself that not the 
most dazzling rank should induce her to marry a man 
whose conduct showed him careless of his character, but 
that, “love once, love always," was the motto of a true 
and pure woman, and no man should ever have any right 
over her which would be a call on her to destroy the 
dried flowers that she treasured, and always would 


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treasure, for Godfrey Cass’s sake. And Nancy was 
capable of keeping her word to herself under trying con- 
ditions. Nothing but a becoming blush betrayed the 
moving thoughts that urged thmselves upon her as she 
5 accepted the seat next to Mr. Crackenthorp ; for she was 
so instinctively neat and adroit in all her actions, and 
her pretty lips met each other with such quiet firmness, 
that it would have been difficult for her to appear agi- 
tated. 

]q It was not the rector’s practice to let a charming 
blush pass without an appropriate compliment. He was 
not in the least lofty or aristocratic, but simply a merry- 
eyed, small-featured, gray-haired man, with his chin 
propped by an ample, many-creased white neck-cloth, 
25 which seemed to predominate over every other point in 
his person, and somehow to impress its peculiar char- 
acter on his remarks; so that to have considered his 
amenities apart from his cravat would have been a 
severe, and perhaps a dangerous, effort of abstraction. 

2q “Ha, Miss Nancy,” he said, turning his head within 
his cravat, and smiling down pleasantly upon her, 
“when anybody pretends this has been a severe win- 
ter, I shall tell them I saw the roses blooming on New 
Year’s Eve — eh, Godfrey, what do you say?” 

25 | Godfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at Nancy 
very markedty; for though these complimentary per- 
sonalities were held to be in excellent taste in old-fash- 
ioned Raveloe society, reverent love has a politeness 
of its own which it teaches to men otherwise of small 
30 schooling. But the Squire was rather impatient at God- 
frey’s showing himself a dull spark in this way. By 
this advanced hour of the day, the Squire was always in 
higher spirits than we have seen him in at the breakfast- 


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table, and felt it quite pleasant to fulfill the hereditary- 
duty of being noisily jovial and patronizing: the large 
silver snuff-box was in active service, and was offered 
without fail to all neighbors from time to time, however 
often they might have declined the favor. At present, 
the Squire had only given an express welcome to the 
heads of families as they appeared; but always as the 
evening deepened, his hospitality rayed out more widely, 
till he had tapped the youngest guests on the back and 
shown a peculiar fondness for their presence, in the full 
belief that they must feel their lives made happy by 
their belonging to a parish where there was such a 
hearty man as Squire Cass to invite them and wish them 
well. Even in this early' stage of the jovial mood, it 
was natural that he should wish to supply his son’s 
deficiencies by looking and speaking for him. 

“Ay, ay,” he began, offering his snuff-box to Mr. 
Lammeter, who for the second time bowed his head and 
waved his hand in stiff rejection of the offer, “us old 
fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we see 
the mistletoe-bough in the White Parlor. It’s true, most 
things are gone back’ard in these last thirty years — 
the country’s going down since the old king fell ill. 
But when I look at Miss Nancy here, I begin to think 
the lasses keep up their quality; — ding me if I remember 
a sample to match her, not when I was a fine young 
fellow, and thought a deal about my pig-tail. No 
offence to you, madam,” he added, bending to Mrs. 
Crackenthorp, who sat by him, “I didn’t know you 
when you were as young as Miss Nancy here.” 

Mrs. Crackenthorp — a small blinking woman, who 
fidgeted incessantly with her lace, ribbons, and gold 
chain, turning her head about and making subdued noises, 


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very much like a guinea-pig, that twitches its nose and 
soliloquizes in all company indiscriminately — now 
blinked and fidgeted towards the Squire, and said, “Oh, 
no — no offence/’ 

5 This emphatic compliment of the Squire’s to Nancy 
was felt by others besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic 
significance; and her father gave a slight additional 
erectness to his back as he looked across the table at her 
with complacent gravity. That grave and orderly senior 
10 was not going to bate a jot of his dignity by seeming 
elated at the notion of a match between his family and 
the Squire’s: he was gratified by any honor paid to his 
daughter, but he must see an alteration in several ways 
before his consent would be vouchsafed. His spare but 
15 healthy person, and high-featured firm face, that looked 
as if it had never been flushed by excess, was in strong 
contrast, not only with the Squire’s, but with the appear- 
ance of the Raveloe farmers generally — in accordance 
with a favorite saying of his own, that “breed was 
20 stronger than pasture.” 

“Miss Nancy’s wonderful like what her mother was, 
though; isn’t she, Kimble?” said the stout lady of that 
name, looking round for her husband. 

But Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days 
25 enjoyed that title without authority of diploma), being 
a thin and agile man, was flitting about the room with 
his hands in his pockets, making himself agreeable to 
his feminine patients, with medical impartiality, and 
being welcomed everywhere as a doctor by hereditary 
30 right — not one of those miserable apothecaries who can- 
vass for practice in strange neighborhoods, and spend 
all their income in starving their one horse, but a man 
of substance, able to keep an extravagant table like the 


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best of his patients. TiiAe out of mind the Raveloe doc- 
tor had been a Kimble ; Kimble was inherently a doctor’s 
name; and it was difficult to contemplate firmly the 
melancholy fact that the actual Kimble had no son, so 
that his practice might one day be handed over to a 
successor, with the incongruous name 6f Taylor or John- 
son. But in that case the wiser people in Raveloe would 
employ Dr. Blick, of Flitton — as less unnatural. 

“Did you speak to me, my dear?” said the authen- 
tic doctor, coming quickly to his wife’s side; but, as if 
foreseeing that she would be too much out of breath to 
repeat her remark, he went on immediately — “Ha, Miss 
Priscilla, the sight of you revives the taste of that super- 
excellent pork-pie. 'I hope the batch isn’t near an end.” 

“Yes, indeed, it is, doctor,” said Priscilla; “but I’ll 
answer for it the next shall be as good. My pork-pies 
don’t turn out well by chance.” 

“Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble? — because 
folks forget to take your physic, eh?” said the Squire, 
who regarded physic and doctors as many loyal church- 
men regard the church and the clergy — tasting a joke 
against them when he was in health, but impatiently 
eager for their aid when anything was the matter with 
him. He tapped his box, and looked round with a 
triumphant laugh. 

“Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has,” 
said the dofctor, choosing to attribute the epigram to 
a lady rather than allow a brother-in-law that advan- 
tage over him. “She saves a little pepper to sprinkle 
over her talk — that’s the reason why she never puts 
too much into her pies. There’s my wife now, she never 
has an answer at her tongue’s end; but if I offend her, 
she’s sure to scarify my throat with black pepper the 


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next day, or else give me the colic with watery greens. 
That’s an awful tit-for-tat.” Here the vivacious doctor 
made a pathetic grimace. 

“Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Kimble, 
5 laughing above her double chin with much good-huilior, 
aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who blinked and nodded, 
and amiably intended to smile, but the intention lost 
itself in small twitching and noises. 

“I suppose that’s the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in 
IQ your profession, Kimble, if you’ve a grudge against a 
patient,” said the rector. 

“Never do have a grudge against our patients,” said 
Mr. Kimble, “except when they leave us; and then, you 
see, we haven’t the chance of prescribing for ’em. Ha, 
15 Miss Nancy,” he continued, suddenly skipping to 
Nancy’s side, “you won’t forget your promise? You’re 
to save a dance for me, you know.” 

“Come, come, Kimble, don’t you be too for’ard,” said 
the Squire. “Give the young uns fair play. There’s 
2 q my son Godfrey ’ll be wanting to have a round with you 
if you run off with Miss Nancy. He’s bespoke her for 
the first dance, I’ll be bound. Eh, sir ! what do you 
say?” he continued, throwing himself backward, and 
looking at Godfrey. “Haven’t you asked Miss Nancy 
25 to open the dance with you ?” 

Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant 
insistence about Nancy, and afraid to think where it 
would end by the time his father had set his usual hospi- 
table example of drinking before and after supper, saw 
30 no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, with as 
little awkwardness as possible, — 

“No, I’ve not asked her yet, but I hope she’ll con- 
sent — if somebody else hasn’t been before me.” 


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“No, I’ve not engaged myself,” said Nancy quietly, 
though blushingly. (If Mr. Godfrey founded any hopes 
on her consenting to dance with him, he would soon be 
undeceived, but there was no need for her to be uncivil.) 

“Then I hope you’ve no objections to dancing with 5 
me,” said Godfrey, beginning to lose the sense that there 
was anything uncomfortable in this arrangement. 

“No, no objections,” said Nancy, in a cold tone. 

“Ah, well, you’re a lucky fellow, Godfrey,” said 
uncle Kimble; “but you’re my godson, so I won’t stand jq 
in your way. Else I’m not so very old, eh, my dear?” 
he went on, skipping to his wife’s side again. “You 
wouldn’t mind my having a second after you were gone, 

— not if I cried a good deal first?” 

“Come, come, take a cup o’ tea and stop your tongue, jg 
do,” said good-humored Mrs. Kimble, feeling some pride 
in a husband who must be regarded as so clever and 
amusing by the company generally. If he had only 
not been irritable at cards ! ^ 

While safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening 20 
the tea in this way, the sound of the fiddle approach- 
ing within a distance at which it could be heard dis- 
tinctly made the young people look at each other with 
sympathetic impatience for the end of the meal. 

“Why, there’s Solomon in the hall,” said the Squire, 25 
“and playing my fav’rite tune, I believe — ‘The flaxen- 
headed ploughboy’ — he’s for giving us a hint as we 
aren’t enough in a hurry to hear him play. Bob,” he 
called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the 
other end of the room, “open the door, and tell Solo- 30 
mon to come in. He shall give us a tune here.” 

Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling as he 
walked, for he would on no account break off in the 
middle of a tune. 


152 


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“Here, Solomon,” said the Squire, with loud pat- 
ronage. “Round here, my man. Ah, I knew it was 
‘The flaxen-headed ploughboy:’ there’s no finer tune.” 

Solomon Macey, a small, hale old man with an abund- 
5 ant crop of long white hair reaching nearly to his 
shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot, bowing rever- 
ently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he re- 
spected the company, though he respected the keynote 
more. As soon as he had repeated the tune and lowered 
10 his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire and the rector, 
and said, “I hope I see your honor and your reverence 
well, and wishing you health and long life and a happy 
New Year. And wishing the same to you, Mr. Lam- 
meter, sir; and to the other gentlemen, and the madams, 
15 and the young lasses.” 

As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all 
directions solicitously, lest be should be wanting in due 
respect. But thereupon he immediately began to pre- 
lude, and fell into the tune which he knew would be 
20 taken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter. 

“Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye,” said Mr. Lammeter, 
when the fiddle paused again. “That’s ‘Over the hills 
and far away/ that is. My father used to say to me 
whenever we heard that tune, ‘Ah, lad, I come from over 
25 the hills and far away.’ There’s a many tunes I don’t 
make head or tail of ; but that speaks to me like the 
blackbird’s whistle. I suppose it’s the name; there’s a 
deal in the name of a tune.” 

But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, 
30 and presently broke with much spirit into “Sir Roger 
de Coverley,” at which there was a sound of chairs 
pushed back, and laughing voices. 


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“Ay, ay, Solomon, we know what that means,” said 
the Squire, rising. “It’s time to begin the dance, eh? 
Lead the way, then, and we’ll all follow you.” 

So Solomon, holding his white head on one side 
an,d playing vigorously, marched forward at the head 
of the gay procession into the White Parlor, where 
the mistletoe-bough was hung, and multitudinous tallow 
candles made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming from 
among the berried holly-boughs, and reflected in the 
old-fashioned oval mirrors fastened in the panels of the 
white wainscot. A quaint procession ! Old Solomon, 
in his seedy clothes and long white locks, seemed to 
be luring that decent company by the magic scream of 
his fiddle — luring discreet matrons in turban-shaped 
caps, nay, Mrs. Crackenthorp herself, the summit of 
whose perpendicular feather was on a level with the 
Squire’s shoulder — luring fair lasses complacently con- 
scious of very short waists and skirts blameless of 
front-folds — luring burly fathers, in large variegated 
waistcoats, and ruddy sons, for the most part shy and 
sheepish, in short nether garments and very long coat- 
tails. 

Already, Mr. Macey and a few other privileged vil- 
lagers, who were allowed to be spectators on these great 
occasions, were seated on benches placed for them near 
the door; and great was the admiration and satisfaction 
in that quarter when the couples had formed themselves 
for the dance, and the Squire led off with Mrs. Cracken- 
thorp, joining hands with the rector and Mrs. Osgood. 
That was as it should be — that was what everybody had 
been used to — and the charter of Raveloe seemed to be 
renewed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an 
unbecoming levity for the old and middle-aged people 


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to dance a little before sitting down to cards, but rather 
as part of their social duties. For what were these if 
not to be merry at appropriate times, interchanging visits 
and poultry with due frequency, paying each other old- 
5 established compliments in sound traditional phrases, 
passing well-tried personal jokes, urging your guests to 
eat and drink too much out of hospitality, and eating 
and drinking too much in your neighbor’s house to show 
that you liked your cheer? And the parson naturally 
10 set an example in these social duties. For it would 
not have been possible for the Raveloe mind, without 
a peculiar revelation, to know that a clergyman should 
be a pale-faced memento of solemnities, instead of a 
reasonably faulty man, whose exclusive authority to 
15 read prayers and preach, to christen, marry, and bury 
you, necessarily co-existed with the right to sell you 
the ground to be buried in, and to take tithe in kind; 
on which last point, of course, there was a little 
grumbling, but not to the extent of irreligion — not of 
20 deeper significance than the grumbling at the rain, 
which was by no means accompanied with a spirit of 
impious defiance, but with a desire that the prayer for 
fine weather might be read forthwith. 

There was no reason, then, why the rector’s dan- 
25 cing should not be received as part of the fitness of 
things quite as much as the Squire’s, or why, on the 
other hand, Mr. Macey’s official respect should restrain 
him from subjecting the parson’s performance to that 
criticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness 
30 must necessarily contemplate the doings of their fal- 
lible fellow-men. 

“The Squire’s pretty springe, considering his weight,” 
said Mr. Macey, “and he stamps uncommon well. But 


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Mr. Larameter beats ’em all for shapes: you see he 
holds his head like a sodger, and he isn’t so cushiony as 
most o’ the oldish gentlefolks — they run fat in general; 
and he’s got a fine leg. The parson’s nimble enough, 
but he hasn’t got much of a leg: it’s a bit too thick 
down’ard, and his knees might be a bit nearer wi’out 
damage; but he might do worse, he might do worse. 
Though he hasn’t that grand way o’ waving his hand as 
the Squire has.” 

“Talk o’ nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood,” said Ben 
Winthop, who was holding his son Aaron between his 
knees. “She trips along with her little steps, so as no- 
body can see how she goes — it’s like as if she had little 
wheels to her feet. She doesn’t look a day older nor 
last year: she’s the finest-made woman as is, let the 
next be where she will.” 

“I don’t heed how the women are made,” said Mr. 
Macey, with some contempt. “They wear nayther coat 
nor breeches ; you can’t make much out o’ their shapes.” 

“Fayder,” said Aaron, whose feet were busy beat- 
ing out the tune, “how does that big cock’s-feather 
stick in Mrs. Crackenthorp’s yead? Is there a little 
hole for it, like in my shuttlecock?” 

“Flush, lad, hush; that’s the way the ladies dress 
theirselves, that is,” said the father; adding, however, 
in an undertone to Mr. Macey: “It does make her 
look funny, though — partly like a short-necked bot- 
tle wi’ a long quill in it. Hey, by jingo, there’s the 
young Squire leading off now, wi’ Miss Nancy for part- 
ners. There’s a lass for you ! — like a pink-and-white 
posy — there’s nobody ’ud think as anybody could be 
so pritty. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s Madam Cass 
some day, arter all — and nobody more rightfuller, for 


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§1 they’d make a fine match. You can find nothing against 
Master Godfrey’s shapes, Macey, /’ll bet a penny.” 

Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head 
further on one side, and twirled his thumbs with a presto 
5 movement as his eyes followed Godfrey up the dance. 
At last he summed up his opinion. 

“Pretty well down’ard, but a bit too round i’ the 
shoulder-blades. And as for them coats as he gets 
from the Flitton tailor, they’re a poor cut to pay double 
10 money for.” 

“Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks,” said 
Ben, slightly indignant at this carping. “When I’ve 
got a pot o’ good ale, I like to swaller it, and do my 
inside good, i’stead o’ smelling and staring at it to see 
15 if I can’t find faut wi’ the brewing. I should like you 
to pick me out a finer-limbed young fellow nor Master 
Godfrey — one as ’ud knock you down easier, or’s more 
pleasanter-looksed when he’s piert and merry.” 

“Tchuh!” said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased 
20 severity, “he isn’t come to his right color yet: lie’s 
partly like a slack-baked pie. And I doubt lie’s got a 
soft place in his head, else why should he be turned 
round the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody’s seen 
o’ late, and let him kill that fine hunting hoss as was 
25 the talk o’ the country? And one while he was allays 
after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again, like 
a smell o’ hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn’t 
my way when I went a-coorting.” 

“Ah, but mayhap Miss Nancy hung off, like, and 
30 your lass didn’t,” said Ben. 

“I should say she didn’t,” said Mr. Macey, signif- 
icantly. “Before I said ‘sniff,’ I took care to know 
as she’d say ‘snaff,’ and pretty quick too. I wasn’t 


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a-going to open my mouth, like a dog at a fly, and 
snap it to again, wi’ nothing to swaller.” 

“Well, I think Miss Nancy’s a-coming round again,” 
said Ben, “for Master Godfrey doesn’t look so down- 
hearted to-night. And I see he’s for taking her away 
to sit down, now they’re at the end o’ the dance: that 
looks like sweet-hearting, that does.” 

The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the 
dance was not so tender as Ben imagined. In the close 
press of couples a slight accident had happened to 
Nancy’s dress, which, while it was short enough to 
show her neat ankle in front, was long enough behind 
to be caught under the stately stamp of the Squire’s 
foot, so as to rend certain stitches at the waist, and 
cause much sisterly agitation in Priscilla’s mind, as 
well as serious concern in Nancy’s. One’s thoughts 
may be much occupied with love-struggles, but hardly 
so as to be insensible to a disorder in the general frame- 
work of things. Nancy had no sooner completed her 
duty in the figure they were dancing than she said to 
Godfrey, with a deep blush, that she must go and sit 
down till Priscilla could come to her; for the sisters 
had already exchanged a short whisper and an open- 
eyed glance full of meaning. No reason less urgent 
than this could have prevailed on Nancy to give God- 
frey this opportunity of sitting apart with her. As for 
Godfrey, he was feeling so happy and oblivious under 
the long charm of the country-dance with Nancy, that 
he got rather bold on the strength of her confusion, 
and was capable of leading her straight away, without 
leave asked, into the adjoining small parlor, where the 
card tables were set. 

“Oh, no, thank you,” said Nancy coldly^ as soon as 


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she perceived where he was going, “not in there. I’ll 
wait here till Priscilla’s ready to come to me. I’m sorry 
to bring you out of the dance and make myself trouble- 
some.” 

5 “Why, you’ll be more comfortable here by yourself,” 
said the artful Godfrey; “I’ll leave you here till your 
sister can come.” He spoke in an indifferent tone. 

That was an agreeable proposition, and just what 
Nancy desired; why, then, was she a little hurt that 
10 Mr. Godfrey should make it? They entered, and she 
seated herself on a chair against one of the card-tables, 
as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she 
could choose. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said immediately. “I needn’t 
15 give you any more trouble. I’m sorry you’ve had such 
an unlucky partner.” 

“That’s very ill-natured of you,” said Godfrey, stand- 
ing by her without any sign of intended departure, “to 
be sorry you’ve danced with me.” 

“Oh, no, sir, I don’t mean to say what’s ill-natured 
at all,” said Nancy, looking distractingly prim and 
pretty. “When gentlemen have so many pleasures, one 
dance can matter but very little.” 

“You know that isn’t true. You know one dance with 
you matters more to me than all the other pleasures in 
the world.” 

It was a long, long while since Godfrey had said 
anything so direct as that, and Nancy was startled. 
But her instinctive dignity and repugnance to any show 
30 of emotion made her sit perfectly still, and only throw 
a little more decision into her voice, as she said, — 

“No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that’s not known to me, 
and I have very good reasons for thinking different. 
But if it’s true, I don’t wish to hear it.” 


r 1 

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159 


“Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy — never 
think well of me, let what would happen — would you 
never think the present made amends for the past? Not 
if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything you 
didn’t like?” 

Godfrey was half conscious that this sudden oppor- 
tunity of speaking to Nancy alone had driven him be- 
side himself; but blind feeling had got the mastery of 
his tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the 
possibility Godfrey’s words suggested, but this very 
pressure of emotion that she was in danger of finding 
too strong for her roused all her power of self-com- 
mand. 

“I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, 
Mr. Godfrey,” she answered, with the slightest discerni- 
ble difference of tone, “but it ’ud be better if no change 
was wanted.” 

“You’re very hard-hearted, Nancy,” said Godfrey 
pettishly. “You might encourage me to be a better 
fellow. I’m very miserable — but you’ve no feeling.” 

“I think those have the least feeling that act wrong 
to begin with,” said Nancy, sending out a flash in spite 
of herself. Godfrey was delighted with that little flash, 
and would have liked to go on and make her quarrel with 
him; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm. But 
she was not indifferent to him yet. 

The entrance of Priscilla, bustling forward and say- 
ing, “Dear heart alive, child, let us look at this gown,” 
cut off Godfrey’s hopes of a quarrel. 

“I suppose I must go now,” he said to Priscilla. 

“It’s no matter to me whether you go or stay,” said 
that frank lady, seaching for something in her pocket, 
with a preoccupied brow. 


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“Do you want me to go?” said Godfrey, looking at 
Nancy, who was now standing up by Priscilla’s order. 

“As you like,” said Nancy, trying to recover all her 
former coldness, and looking down carefully at the hem 
5 of her gown. 

“Then I like to stay,” said Godfrey, with a reckless 
determination to get as much of this joy as he could 
to-night, and think nothing of the morrow. 


CHAPTER XII 

While Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forget- 
10 fulness from the sweet presence of Nancy, willingly 
losing all sense of that hidden bond which at other mo- 
ments galled and fretted him so as to mingle irritation 
with the very sunshine, Godfrey’s wife was walking 
with slow uncertain steps through the snow-covered 
15 Raveloe lanes, carrying her child in her arms. 

This journey on New Year’s Eve was a premeditated 
act of vengeance which she had kept in her heart ever 
since Godfrey, in a fit of passion, had told her he would 
sooner die than acknowledge her as his wife. There 
20 would be a great party at the Red House on New Year’s 
Eve, she knew: her husband would be smiling and smiled 
upon, hiding her existence in the darkest corner of his 
heart. But she would mar his pleasure: she would go 
in her dingy rags, with her faded face, once as hand- 
25 some as the best, with her little child that had its 
father’s hair and eyes, and disclose herself to the Squire 
as his eldest son’s wife. It is seldom that the miserable 
can help regarding their misery as a wrong inflicted by 
those who are less miserable. Molly knew that the cause 


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of her dingy rags was not her husband’s neglect, but the 
demon Opium to whom she was enslaved, body and soul, 
except in the lingering mother’s tenderness that refused 
to give him her hungry child. She knew this well; and 
yet, in the moments of wretched unbenumbed conscious- 
ness, the sense of her want and degradation transformed 
itself continually into bitterness towards Godfrey. He 
was well off; and if she had her rights she would be 
well off too. The belief that he repented his marriage, 
and suffered from it, only aggravated her vindictiveness. 
Just and self-reproving thoughts do not come to us too 
thickly, even in the purest air, and with the best lessons 
of heaven and earth; how should those white-winged 
delicate messengers make their way to Molly’s poisoned 
chamber, inhabited by no higher memories than those of 
a bar-maid’s paradise of pink ribbons and gentlemen’s 
j okes ? 

She had set out at an early hour, but had lingered 
on the road, inclined by her indolence to believe that 
if she w'aited under a warm shed the snow would cease 
to fall. She had waited longer than she knew, and 
now that she found herself belated in the snow-hidden 
ruggedness of the long lanes, even the animation of a 
vindictive purpose could not keep her spirit from fail- 
ing. It was seven o’clock, and by this time she w T as 
not very far from Raveloe, but she was not familiar 
enough with those monotonous lanes to know how near 
she was to her journey’s end. She needed comfort, 
and she knew’ but one comforter — the familiar demon 
in her bosom; but she hesitated a moment, after draw- 
ing out the black remnant, before she raised it to her 
lips. In that moment the mother’s love pleaded for 
painful consciousness rathe* than oblivion — pleaded 


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to be left in aching weariness, rather than to have the 
encircling arms benumbed so that they could not feel 
the dear burden. In another moment Molly had flung 
something away, but it was not the black remnant — 
5 it was an empty phial. And she walked on again 
under the breaking cloud, from which there came now 
and then the light of a quickly veiled star, for a freez- 
ing wind had sprung up since the snowing had ceased. 
But she walked always more and more drowsily, and 
10 clutched more and more automatically the sleeping child 
at her bosom. 

Slowly the demon was working his will, and cold 
and weariness were his helpers. Soon she felt nothing 
but a supreme immediate longing that curtained off all 
15 futurity — the longing to lie down and sleep. She had 
arrived at a spot where her footsteps were no longer 
checked by a hedgerow, and she had wandered vaguely, 
unable to distinguish any objects, notwithstanding the 
^wide whiteness around her, and the growing starlight. 
20 She sank down against a straggling furze bush, an easy 
pillow enough; and the bed of snow, too, was soft. She 
did not feel that the bed was cold, and did not heed 
whether the child would wake and cry for her. But her 
arms had not yet relaxed their instinctive clutch; and 
25 the little one slumbered on as gently as if it had been 
rocked in a lace-trimmed cradle. 

But the complete torpor came at last: the fingers lost 
their tension, the arms unbent; then the little head fell 
away from her bosom, and the blue eyes opened wide 
30 on the cold starlight. At first there was a little peevish 
cry of “mammy,” and an effort to regain the pillowing 
arm and bosom ; but mammy’s ear was deaf, and the pil- 
low seemed to be slipping away backward. Suddenly, 


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as the child rolled downward on its mother's knee, all 
wet with snow, its eyes were caught by a bright glanc- 
ing light on the white ground, and, with the ready transi- 
tion of infancy, it was immediately absorbed in watching 
the bright living thing running towards it, yet never 
arriving. That bright living thing must be caught; and 
in an instant the child had slipped on all fours, and held 
out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the gleam 
would not be caught in that way, and now the head was 
held up to see where the cunning gleam came from. It 
came from a very bright place; and the little one, rising 
on its legs, toddled through the snow, the old grimy 
shawl in which it was wrapped trailing behind it, and the 
queer little bonnet dangling at its back — toddled on to 
the open door of Silas Marner’s cottage, and right up 
to the warm hearth, where there was a bright fire of 
logs and sticks, which had thoroughly warmed the old 
sack (Silas’s greatcoat) spread out on the bricks to dry. 
The little one, accustomed to be left to itself for long 
hours without notice from its mother, squatted down on 
the sack, and spread its tiny hands towards the blaze, 
in perfect contentment, gurgling and making many inar- 
ticulate communications to the cheerful fire, like a new- 
hatched gosling beginning to find itself comfortable. 
But presently the warmth had a lulling effect, and the 
little golden head sank down on the old sack, and the 
blue eyes were veiled by their delicate, half-transparent 
lids. 

But where was Silas Marner while this strange visitor 
had come to his hearth? He was in the cottage, but he 
did not see the child. During the last few weeks, since 
he had lost his money, he had contracted the habit of 
opening his door and looking out from time to time, as 


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if he thought that his money might be somehow coming 
back to him, or that some trace, some news of it, might 
be mysteriously on the road, and be caught by the 
listening ear or the straining eye. It was chiefly at 
5 night, when he was not occupied in his loom, that he fell 
into this repetition of an act for which he could have 
assigned no definite purpose, and which can hardly be 
understood except by those who have undergone a be- 
wildering separation from a supremely loved object. 
10 In the evening twilight, and later whenever the night 
was not dark, Silas looked out on that narrow prospect 
round the Stone-pits, listening and gazing, not with 
hope, but with mere yearning and unrest. 

This morning he had been told by some of his neigh- 
15 bors that it was New Year’s Eve, and that he must sit 
up and hear the old year rung out and the new rung in, 
because that was good luck, and might bring his money 
back again. This was only a friendly Raveloe-way of 
jesting with the half-crazy oddities of a miser, but it 
20 had perhaps helped to throw Silas into a more than 
usually excited state. Since the on-coming of twilight 
he had opened his door again and again, though only to 
shut it immediately at seeing all distance veiled by the 
falling snow. But the last time he opened it the snow 
25 had ceased, and the clouds were parting here and there. 
He stood and listened, and gazed for a long while — 
there was really something on the road coming towards 
him then, but he caught no sign of it; and the stillness 
and the wide trackless snow seemed to narrow his soli- 
30 tude, and touched his yearning with the chill of despair. 
He went in again, and put his right hand on the latch 
of the door to close it — but he did not close it: he was 
arrested, as he had been already since his loss, by the 


SILAS MARNER 


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invisible wand of catalepsy, and stood like a graven 
image, with wide but sightless eyes, holding open his 
door, powerless to resist either the good or evil that 
might enter there. 

When Marner’s sensibility returned, he continued the 
action which had been arrested, and closed his door, 
unaware of the chasm in his consciousness, unaware of 
any intermediate change, except that the light had grown 
dim, and that he was chilled and faint. He thought he 
had been too long standing at the door and looking out. 
Turning towards the hearth, where the two logs had 
fallen apart, and sent forth only a red uncertain glim- 
mer, he seated himself on his fireside chair, and was 
stooping to push his logs together, when, to his blurred 
vision, it seemed as if there were gold on the floor in 
front of the hearth. Gold ! — his own gold — brought 
back to him as mysteriously as it had been taken away! 
He felt his heart begin to beat violently, and for a few 
moments he was unable to stretch out his hand and 
grasp the restored treasure. The heap of gold seemed 
to glow and get larger beneath his agitated gaze. He 
leaned forward at last, and stretched forth his hand; 
but instead of the hard coin with the familiar* resisting 
outline, his fingers encountered soft warm curls. In 
utter amazement, Silas fell on his knees and bent his 
head low to examine the marvel: it was a sleeping child 
— a round, fair thing, with soft yellow rings all over its 
head. Could this be his little sister come back to him in 
a dream — his little sister whom he had carried about 
in his arms for a year before she died, when he was a 
small boy without shoes or stockings? That was the 
first thought that darted across Silas’s blank wonder- 
ment. Was it a dream? He rose to his feet again, 


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pushed his logs together, and, throwing on some dried 
leaves and sticks, raised a flame; but the flame did not 
disperse the vision — it only lit up more distinctly the 
little round form of the child and its shabby clothing. 
5 It was very much like his little sister. Silas sank into 
his chair powerless, under the double presence of an 
inexplicable surprise and a hurrying influx of memories. 
How and when had the child come in without his know- 
ledge? He had never been beyond the door. But along 
10 with that question, and almost thrusting it away, there 
was a vision of the old home and the old streets leading 
to Lantern Yard — and within that vision another, of 
the thoughts which had been present with him in those 
far-off scenes. The thoughts were strange to him now, 
15 like old friendships impossible to revive; and yet he had 
a dreamy feeling that this child was somehow a message 
come to him from that far-off life: it stirred fibres that 
had never been moved in Raveloe — old quiverings of 
tenderness — old impressions of awe at the presentiment 
20 of some Power presiding over his life; for his imagina- 
tion had not yet extricated itself from the sense of mys- 
tery in the child's sudden presence, and had formed no 
conjectures of ordinary natural means by which the 
event could have been brought about. 

25 But there was a cry on the hearth: the child had 
awaked, and Marner stooped to lift it on his knee. It 
clung round his neck, and burst louder and louder into 
that mingling of inarticulate cries with “mammy” by 
which little children express the bewilderment of wak- 
30 ing. Silas pressed it to him, and almost unconsciously 
uttered sounds of hushing tenderness, while he be- 
thought himself that some of his porridge, which had 
got cool by the dying fire, would do to feed the child 
with if it were only warmed up a little. 


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He had plenty to do through the next hour. The 
porridge, sweetened with some dry brown sugar from 
an old store which he had refrained from using for 
himself, stopped the cries of the little one, and made 
her lift her blue eyes with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, 5 
as he put the spoon into her mouth. Presently she 
slipped from his knee and began to toddle about, but 
with a pretty stagger that made Silas jump up and 
follow her lest she should fall against anything that 
would hurt her. But she only fell in a sitting posture 10 
on the ground, and began to pull at her boots, looking 
up at him with a crying face as if the boots hurt her. 

He took her on his knee again, but it was some time 
before it occurred to Silas’s dull bachelor mind that 
the wet boots were the grievance, pressing on her warm 15 
ankles. He got them off with difficulty, and baby was 
at once happily occupied with the primary mystery of 
her own toes, inviting Silas, with much chuckling, to 
consider the mystery too. But the wet boots had at 
last suggested to Silas that the child had been walking 20 
on the snow, and this roused him from his entire oblivion 
of any ordinary means by which it could have entered 
or been brought into his house. Under the prompting 
of this new idea, and without waiting to form conjec- 
tures, he raised the child in his arms, and went to the 25 
door. As soon as he had opened it, there was the cry 
of “mammy” again, which Silas had not heard since 
the child’s first hungry waking. Bending forward, he 
could just discern the marks made by the little feet on 
the virgin snow, and he followed their track to the furze 30 
bushes. “Mammy !” the little one cried again and again, 
stretching itself forward so as almost to escape from 
Silas’s arms, before he himself was aware that there was 


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something more than the bush before him — that there 
was a human body, with the head sunk low in the furze, 
and half covered with the shaken snow. 

CHAPTER XIII 

It was after the early supper-time at the Red House, 
5 and the entertainment was in that stage when bashful- 
ness, conscious of unusual accomplishments, could at 
length be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when 
the Squire preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, 
and patting his visitors’ backs, to sitting longer at the 
10 whist-table — a choice exasperating to uncle Kimble, who, 
being always volatile in sober business hours, became 
intense and bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled before 
his adversary’s deal with a glare of suspicion, and turned 
up a mean trump-card with an air of inexpressible dis- 
15 gust, as if in a world where such things could happen 
one might as well enter on a coarse of reckless profligacy. 
When the evening had advanced to this pitch of freedom 
and enj oyment, it was usual for the servants, the heavy 
duties of supper being all over, to get their share of 
20 amusement by coming to look on at the dancing; so that 
the back regions of the house were left in solitude. 

There w T ere two doors by which the White Parlor 
was entered from the hall, and they were both standing 
open for the sake of air ; but the lower one was crowded 
25 with the servants, and villagers, and only the upper door- 
way was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe, 
and his father, very proud of his lithe son, whom he re- 
peatedly declared to be just like himself in his young 
days in a tone that implied this to the very highest 
30 stamp of juvenile merit, was the centre of a group who 


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had placed themselves opposite the performer, not far 
from the upper door. Godfrey was standing a little way 
off, not to admire his brother’s dancing, but to keep 
sight of Nancy, who was seated in the group, near her 
father. He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid 
suggesting himself as a subject for the Squire’s fatherly 
jokes in connection with matrimony and Miss Nancy 
Lammeter’s beauty, which were likely to become more 
and more explicit. But he had the prospect of dancing 
with her again when the hornpipe was concluded, and in 
the meanwhile it w r as very pleasant to get long glances 
at her quite unobserved. 

But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of 
those long glances they encountered an object as start- 
ling to him at that moment as if it had been an appari- 
tion from the dead. It was an apparition from that 
hidden life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind 
the goodly ornamental facade that meets the sunlight 
and the gaze of respectable admirers. It was his own 
child, carried in Silas Marner’s arms. That was his 
instantaneous impression, unaccompanied by doubt, 
though he had not seen the child for months past; and 
when the hope was rising that he might possibly be mis- 
taken, Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Lammeter had already 
advanced to Silas in astonishment at this strange advent. 
Godfrey joined them immediately, unable to rest without- 
hearing every word — trying to control himself, but con- 
scious that if any one noticed him, they must see that 
he was white-lipped and trembling. 

But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent 
on Silas Marner; the Squire himself had risen, and 
asked angrily, “How’s this? — what’s this? — what do 
you do coming in here in this way?” 


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“I’m come for the doctor — I want the doctor/’ Silas 
had said; in the first moment, to Mr. Crackenthorp. 

“Why, what’s the matter, Marner?” said the rector. 
“The doctor’s here; but say quietly what you want him 
5 for.” 

“It’s a woman,” said Silas, speaking low, and half 
breathlessly, just as Godfrey came up. “She’s dead, 
I think — dead in the snow at the Stone-pits — not far 
from my door.” 

10 Godfrey felt a great throb: there was one terror in 
his mind at that moment: it was, that the woman might 
not be dead. That was an evil terror — an ugly inmate 
to have found a nestling-place in Godfrey’s kindly dis- 
position; but no disposition is a security from evil 
15 wishes to a man whose happiness hangs on duplicity. 

“Hush, hush !” said Mr. Crackenthorp. “Go out into 
the hall there. I’ll fetch the doctor to you. Found a 
woman in the snow — and thinks she’s dead,” he added, 
speaking low to the Squire. “Better say as little about 
20 it as possible: it will shock the ladies. Just tell them a 
poor woman is ill from cold and hunger. I’ll go and 
fetch Kimble.” 

By this time, however, the ladies had pressed for- 
ward, curious to know what could have brought the 
25 solitary linen-weaver there under such strange circum- 
stances, and interested in the pretty child, who, half 
alarmed and half attracted by the brightness and the 
numerous company, now frowned and hid her face, now 
lifted up her head again and looked round placably, 
30 until a touch or a coaxing word brought back the frown, 
and made her bury her face with new determination. 

“What child is it?” said several ladies at once, and, 
among the rest, Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey. 


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“I don’t know — some poor woman’s who has been 
found in the snow, I believe,” was the answer Godfrey 
wrung from himself with a terrible effort. (“After all, 
am I certain?” he hastened to add, in anticipation of 
his own conscience.) 

“Why, you’d better leave the child here, then. Master 
Marner,” said good-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating, 
however, to take those dingy clothes into contact with 
her own ornamented satin bodice. “I’ll tell one o’ the 
girls to fetch it.” 

“No — no — I can’t part with it, I can’t let it go,” 
said Silas abruptly. “It’s come to me — I’ve a right to 
keep it.” 

The proposition to take the child from him had come 
to Silas quite unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered under 
a strong sudden impulse, was almost like a revelation to 
himself: a minute before he had no distinct intention 
about the child. 

“Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Kimble, in 
mild surprise, to her neighbor. 

“Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside,” 
said Mr. Kimble, coming from the card-room, in some 
bitterness at the interruption, but drilled by the long 
habit of his profession into obedience to unpleasant calls, 
even when he was hardly sober. 

“It’s a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kim- 
ble?” said the Squire. “He might ha’ gone for your 
young fellow, — the ’prentice, there, — what’s his name?” 

“Might? ay, — what’s the use of talking about might?” 
growled uncle Kimble, hastening out with Marner, and 
followed by Mr. Crackenthorp and Godfrey. “Get me 
a pair of thick boots, Godfrey, will you? And stay, let 
somebody run to Winthrop’s and fetch Dolly, — she’s 


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the best woman to get. Ben was here himself before 
supper; is he gone?” 

j ‘‘Yes sir, I met him,” said Marner; “ but I couldn’t 
stop to tell him anything, only I said I was going for 
5 the doctor, and he said the doctor was at the Squire’s. 
And I made haste and ran, and there was nobody to 
be seen at the back o’ the house, and so I went in to 
where the company was.” 

The child, no longer distracted by the bright light 
10 and the smiling women’s faces, began to cry and call 
for “mammy,” though always clinging to Marner, who 
had apparently won her thorough confidence. Godfrey 
had come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if 
some fibre were drawn tight within him. 

15 “I’ll go,” he said hastily, eager for some movement; 
“I’ll go and fetch the woman, — Mrs. Winthrop.” 

“Oh, pooh, — send somebody else,” said uncle Kimble, 
hurrying away with Marner. 

“You’ll let me know if I can be of any use, Kimble,” 
20 said Mr. Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out of hear- 
ing. 

Godfrey, too, had disappeared: he was gone to snatch 
his hat and coat, having just reflection enough to remem- 
ber that he must not look like a madman; but he rushed 
25 out of the house into the snow without heeding his thin 
shoes. 

In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the 
Stone-pits by the side of Dolly, who, though feeling 
that she was entirely in her place in encountering cold 
30 and snow on an errand of mercy, was much concerned 
at a young gentleman’s getting his feet wet under a 
like impulse. 

“You’d a deal better go back, sir,” said Dolly, with 


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respectful compassion. “You’ve no call to catch cold; 
and I’d ask you if you’d be so good as tell my husband 
to come, on your way back — he’s at the Rainbow, I 
doubt — if you found him any way sober enough to be 
o’ use. Or else, there’s Mrs. Snell ’ud happen send the 
boy up to fetch and carry, for there may be things 
wanted from the doctor’s.” 

“No, I’ll stay, now I’m once out — I’ll stay outside 
here,” said Godfrey, when they came opposite Marner’s 
cottage. “You can come and tell me if I can do any- 
thing.” 

“Well, sir, you’re very good: you’ve a tender heart,” 
said Dolly, going to the door. 

Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a 
twinge of self-reproach at this undeserved praise. He 
walked up and down, unconscious that he was plung- 
ing ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but 
trembling suspense about what was going on in the cot- 
tage, and the effect of each alternative on his future 
lot. No, not quite unconscious of everything else. 
Deeper down, and half smothered by passionate desire 
and dread, there was the sense that Re ought not to be 
waiting on these alternatives ; that he ought to accept the 
consequences of his deeds, own the miserable wife, and 
fulfill the claims of the helpless child. But he had not 
moral courage enough to contemplate that active renun- 
ciation of Nancy as possible for him: he had only con- 
science and heart enough to make him forever uneasy 
under the weakness that forbade the renunciation. And 
at this moment his mind leaped away from all restraint 
towards the sudden prospect of deliverance from his 
long bondage. 

“Is she dead?” said the voice that predominated 


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over every other within him. “If she is, I may marry 
Nancy; and then I shall be a good fellow in future, 
and have no secrets, and the child — shall be taken care 
of somehow.” But across that vision came the other 
5 possibility — “She may live, and then it’s all up with 
me.” 

Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door 
of the cottage opened and Mr. Kimble came out. He 
went forward to meet his uncle, prepared to suppress 
10 the agitation he must feel, whatever news he was to 
hear. 

“I waited for you, as I’d come so far,” he said, speak- 
ing first. 

“Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out. Why 
15 didn’t you send one of the men? There’s nothing to be 
done. She’s dead — has been dead for hours, I should 

99 

say. 

“What sort of woman is she?” said Godfrey, feeling 
the blood rush to his face. 

20 “A young woman, but emaciated, with long black 
hair. Some vagrant — quite in rags. She’s got a wed- 
ding-ring on, however. They must fetch her away to 
the workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along.” 

“I want to look at her,” said Godfrey. “I think I 
. 25 saw such a woman yesterday. I’ll overtake you in a 
minute or two.” 

Mr Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the 
cottage. He cast only one glance at the dead face on 
the pillow, which Dolly had smoothed with decent care; 
30 but he remembered that last look at his unhappy hated 
wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every line 
in the worn face was present to him when he told the 
full story of this night. 


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He turned immediately towards the hearth, where Silas 
Marner sat lulling the child. She was perfectly quiet 
now, but not asleep — only soothed by sweet porridge 
and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which makes us 
older human beings, with our inward turmoil, feel a cer- 
tain awe in the presence of a little child, such as we feel 
before some quiet majesty or beauty in the earth or sky — 
before a steady-glowing planet, or a full-flowered eglan- 
tine, or the bending trees over a silent pathway. The 
wide-open blue eyes looked up at Godfrey’s without any 
uneasiness or sign of recognition; the child could make 
no visible audible claim on its father; and the father 
felt a strange mixture of feeling, a conflict of regret and 
joy, that the pulse of that little heart had no response 
for the half-jealous yearning in his own, when the blue 
eyes turned away from him slowly, and fixed themselves 
on the weaver’s queer face, which was bent low down 
to look at them, while the small hand began to pull 
Marner’s withered cheek with loving disfiguration. 

“You’ll take the child to the parish to-morrow?” 
asked Godfrey, speaking as indifferently as he could. 

“Who says so?” said Marner sharply. “Will they 
make me take her?” 

“Why, you wouldn’t like to keep her, should you — 
an old bachelor like you?” 

“Till anybody shows they’ve a right to take her 
away from me,” said Marner. “The mother’s dead, and 
I reckon it’s got no father; it’s a lone thing — and I’m 
a lone thing. My money’s gone, I don’t know where — 
and this is come from I don’t know where. I know 
nothing — I’m partly mazed.” 

“Poor little thing !” said Godfrey. “Let me give some- 
thing towards finding it clothes.” 


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He had put his hand in his pocket and found half 
a guinea, and, thrusting it into Silas’s hand, he hurried 
out of the cottage to overtake Mr. Kimble. 

“Ah, I see it’s not the same woman I saw,” he said, 
5 as he came up. “It’s a pretty little child; the old fellow 
seems to want to keep it ; that’s strange for a miser like 
him. But I gave him a trifle to help him out ; the parish 
isn’t likely to quarrel with him for the right to keep the 
child.” 

10 “No; but I’ve seen the time when I might have 
quarrelled with him for it myself. It’s too late now, 
though. If the child ran into the fire, your aunt’s too 
fat to overtake it; she could only sit and grunt like an 
alarmed sow. But what a fool you are, Godfrey, to 
15 come out in your dancing shoes and stockings in this 
way — and you one of the beaux of the evening, and at 
your own house! What do you mean by such freaks, 
young fellow? Has Miss Nancy been cruel, and do 
you want to spite her by spoiling your pumps?” 

20 “Oh, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I 
was tired to death of jigging and gallanting, and that 
bother about the hornpipes. And I’d got to dance with 
the other Miss Gunn,” said Godfrey, glad of the subter- 
fuge his uncle had suggested to him. 

25 The prevarication and white lies which a mind that 
keeps itself ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a 
great artist under the false touches that no eye detects 
but his own, are worn as lightly as mere trimmings when 
once the actions have become a lie. 

30 Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlor with dry 
feet, and, since the truth must be told, with a sense of 
relief and gladness that was too strong for painful 
thoughts to struggle with. For could he not venture 


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now, whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderest 
things to Nancy Lammeter — to promise her and him- 
self that he would always be just what she would de- 
sire to see him? There was no danger that his dead 
wife would be recognized: those were not days of active 
inquiry and wide report; and as for the registry of 
their marriage, that was a long way off, buried in un- 
turned pages, away from every one’s interest but his 
own. Dunsey might betray him if he came back; but 
Dunsey might be won to silence. 

And when events turn out so much better for a man 
than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof that 
his conduct has been less foolish and blameworthy than 
it might otherwise have appeared ? When we are treated 
well, we naturally begin to think that we are not alto- 
gether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should 
treat ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune. 
Where, after all, would be the use of his confessing the 
past to Nancy Lammeter, and throwing away his happi- 
ness? — nay, hers? for he felt some confidence that she 
loved him. As for the child, he would see that it was 
cared for; he would never forsake it; he would do every- 
thing but own it. Perhaps it would be just as happy 
in life without being owned by its father, seeing that 
nobody could tell how things would turn out, and that — 
is there any other reason wanted? — well, then, that the 
father would be much happier without owning the child. 


CHAPTER XIV 

There was a pauper’s burial that week in Raveloe, 
and up Kench Yard at Batherley it was known that 


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the dark-haired woman with the fair child, who had 
lately come to lodge there, was gone away again. That 
was all the express note taken that Molly had disap- 
peared from the eyes of men. But the unwept death 
5 which, to the general lot, seemed as trivial as the sum- 
mer-shed leaf, was charged with the force of destiny 
to certain human lives that we know of, shaping their 
joys and sorrows even to the end. 

Silas Marner’s determination to keep the “tramp’s 
10 child” was matter of hardly less surprise and iterated 
talk in the village than the robbery of his money. That 
softening of feeling towards him which dated from his 
misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in 
a rather contemptuous pity for him as lone and crazy, 
15 was now accompanied with a more active sympathy, 
especially amongst the women. Notable mothers, who 
knew what it was to keep children “whole and sweet;” 
lazy mothers, who knew r what it was to be interrupted 
in folding their arms and scratching their elbows by the 
20 mischievous propensities of children just firm on their 
legs, were equally interested in conjecturing how a lone 
man would manage with a two-year-old child on his 
hands, and were equally ready with their suggestions: 
the notable chiefly telling him what he had better do, and 
25 the lazy ones being emphatic in telling him what he 
would never be able to do. 

Among the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was the 
one whose neighborly offices were the most acceptable 
to Marner, for they were rendered without any show 
30 of bustling instruction. Silas had shown her the half- 
guinea given to him by Godfrey, and had asked her what 
he should do about getting some clothes for the child. 

“Eh, Master Marner,” said Dolly, “there’s no call 


SILAS MARNER 


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to buy, no more nor a pair o’ shoes; for I’ve got the 
little petticoats as Aaron wore five years ago, and it’s 
ill spending the money on them baby-clothes, for the 
child ’ull grow like grass i’ May, bless it — that it will.” 

And the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and 
displayed to Marner, one by one, the tiny garments in 
their due order of succession, most of them patched 
and darned, but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs. 
This was the introduction to a great ceremony with 
soap and water, from which Baby came out in new 
beauty, and sat on Dolly’s knee, handling her toes and 
chuckling and patting her palms together with an air 
of having made several discoveries about herself, which 
she communicated by alternate sounds of “gug-gug- 
gug,” and '‘mammy.” The “mammy” was not a cry of 
need or uneasiness; Baby had been used to utter it with- 
out expecting either tender sound or touch to follow. 

“Anybody ’ud think the angils in heaven couldn’t be 
prettier,” said Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and kiss- 
ing them. “And to think of its being covered wi’ them 
dirty rags — and the poor mother — froze to death; but 
there’s Them as took care of it, and brought it to your 
door, Master Marner. The door was open, and it walked 
in over the snow, like as if it had been a little starved 
robin. Didn’t you say the door was open?” 

“Yes,” said Silas meditatively. “Yes — the door was 
open. The money’s gone I don’t know where, and this 
is come from I don’t know where.” 

He had not mentioned to any one his unconsciousness 
of the child’s entrance, shrinking from questions 
which might lead to the fact he himself suspected — 
namely, that he had been in one of his trances. 

“Ah,” said Dolly, with soothing gravity, “it’s like 


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the night and the morning, and the sleeping and the wak- 
ing, and the rain and the harvest: — one goes and the 
other comes, and we know nothing how nor where. We 
may strive and scrat and fend, but it’s little we can do 
5 arter all — the big things come and go wi’ no striving o’ 
our’n — they do, that they do; and I think you’re in the 
right on it to keep the little un, Master Marner, seeing 
as it’s been sent to you, though there’s folks as thinks 
different. You’ll happen be a bit moithered with it 
10 while it’s so little; but I’ll come, and welcome, and see 
to it for you; I’ve a bit o’ time to spare most days, for 
when one gets up betimes i’ the morning, the clock seems 
to stan’ still tow’rt ten, afore it’s time to go about the 
victual. So, as I say, I’ll come and see to the child for 
15 you, and welcome.” 

“Thank you . . . kindly,” said Silas, hesitating a 
little. “I’ll be glad if you’ll tell me things. But,” he 
added uneasily, leaning forward to look at Baby with 
some jealousy, as she was resting her head backward 
20 against Dolly’s arm, and eyeing him contentedly from a 
distance, “but I want to do things for it myself, else 
it may get fond o’ somebody else, and not fond o’ me. 
I’ve been used to fending for myself in the house — I 
can learn, I can learn.” 

25 “Eli, to be sure,” .said Dolly gently. “I’ve seen 
men as are wonderful handy wi’ children. The men 
are awk’ard and contrairy mostly, God help ’em — but 
when the drink’s out of ’em, they aren’t unsensible, 
though they’re bad for leeching and bandaging — so fiery 
30 and unpatient. You see this goes first, next the skin,” 
proceeded Dolly, taking up the little shirt, and putting 
it on. 

“Yes,” said Marner docilely, bringing his eyes very 


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close, that they might be initiated in the mysteries; 
whereupon Baby seized his head with both her small 
arms, and put her lips against his face with purring 
noises. 

“See there,” said Dolly, with a woman’s tender tact, 
“she fondest o’ you. She wants to go o’ your lap, I’ll 
be bound. Go, then; take her, Master Marner; you 
can put the things on, and then you can say as you’ve 
done for her from the first of her coming to you.” 

Marner took her on his lap, trembling, with an emo- 
tion mysterious to himself, at something unknown dawn- 
ing on his life. Thought and feeling were so confused 
within him that if he had tried to give them utterance, 
he could only have said that the child was come instead 
of the gold — that the gold had turned into the child. 
He took the garments from Dolly, and put them on 
under her teaching, interrupted, of course, by Baby’s 
gymnastics. 

“There, then! why, you take to it quite easy. Mas- 
ter Marner,” said Dolly; “but what shall you do when 
you’re forced to sit in your loom? For she’ll get busier 
and mischievouser every day — she will, bless her. It’s 
lucky as you’ve got that high hearth i’stead of a grate, 
for that keeps the fire more out of her reach; but if 
you’ve got anything as can be split or broke, or as is 
fit to cut her fingers off, she’ll be at it — and it is but 
right you should know.” 

Silas meditated a little while in some perplexity. 
“I’ll tie her to the leg o’ the loom,” he said at last — 
“tie her with a good long strip o’ something.” 

“Well, mayhap that’ll do, as it’s a little gell, for 
they’re easier persuaded to sit i’ one place nor the lads. 
I know what the lads are, for I’ve had four — four I’ve 


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had, God knows — and if you was to take and tie 'em up, 
they’d make a fighting and a crying as if you was 
ringing the pigs. But I’ll bring you my little chair, 
and some bits o’ red rag and things for her to play wi’ ; 
5 an’ she’ll sit and chatter to ’em as if they was alive. 
Eh, if it wasn’t a sin to the lads to wish ’em made dif- 
ferent, bless ’em, I should ha’ been glad for one of ’em 
to be a little gell ; and to think as I could ha’ taught her 
to scour, and mend, and the knitting, and everything. 
Id But I can teach ’em this little un. Master Marner, when 
she gets old enough.” 

‘'But she’ll be my little un,” said Marner, rather 
hastily. “She’ll be nobody else’s.” 

“No, to be sure; you’ll have a right to her if you’re 
15 a father to her, and bring her up according. But,” 
added Dollvj coming to a point which she had deter- 
mined beforehand to touch upon, “you must bring her up 
like christened folks’s children, and take her to church, 
and let her learn her catechise, as my little Aaron can 
20 say off — the ‘I believe,’ and everything, and ‘hurt nobody 
by word or deed,’ — as well as if he was the clerk. 
That’s what you must do, Master Marner, if you’d do 
the right thing by the orphin child.” 

Marner’s pale face flushed suddenly under a new 
25 anxiety. His mind was too busy trying to give some 
definite bearing to Dolly’s words for him to think of 
answering her. 

“And it’s my belief,” she went on, “as the poor little 
creature has never been christened, and it’s nothing but 
30 right as the parson should be spoke to; and if you was 
noways unwilling, I’d talk to Mr. Macey about it this 
very day. For if the child ever went anyways wrong, 
and you hadn’t done your part by it, Master Marner — 


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’noculation, and everything to save it from harm — it 
’ud be a thorn i’ your bed forever o’ this side the grave; 
and I can’t think as it ’ud be easy lying down for any- 
body when they’d got to another world,, if they hadn’t 
done their part by the helpless children as come wi’out 
their own asking.” 

Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time 
now, for she had spoken from the depths of her own 
simple belief, and was much concerned to know whether 
her words would produce the desired effect on Silas. He 
was puzzled and anxious, for Dolly’s word “christened” 
conveyed no distinct meaning to him. He had only heard 
of baptism, and had only seen the baptism of grown-up 
men and women. 

“What is it as you mean by ‘christened’ ?” he said 
at last timidly. “Won’t folks be good to her without 
it?” 

“Dear, dear! Master Marner,” said Dolly, with gentle 
distress and compassion. “Had you never no father 
nor mother as taught you to say your prayers, and as 
there’s good words and good things to keep us from 
harm ?” 

“Yes,” said Silas, in a low voice; “I know a deal 
about that — used to, used to. But your ways are dif- 
ferent; my country was a good way off,” He paused 
a few moments, and then added, more decidedly, “But 
I want to do everything as can be done for the child. 
And whatever’s right for it i’ this country, and you think 
’ull do it good, I’ll act according, if you’ll tell me.” 

“Well, then, Master Marner,” said Dolly, inwardly 
rejoiced, “I’ll ask Mr. Macey to speak to the parson 
about it; and you must fix on a name for it, because it 
must have a name giv’ it when it’s christened.” 


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“My mother’s name was Hephzibah,” said Silas, “and 
my little sister was named after her.” 

“Eh, that’s a hard name,” said Dolly. “I partly 
think it isn’t a christened name.” 

5 “It’s a Bible name,” said Silas, old ideas recurring. 

“Then I’ve no call to speak again’ it,” said Dolly, 
rather startled by Silas’s knowledge on this head; “but 
you see I’m no scholard, and I’m slow at catching the 
words. My husband says I’m allays like as if I was 
10 putting the haft for the handle — that’s what he says — 
for he's very sharp, God help him. But it was awk’ard 
calling your little sister by such a hard name, when you’d 
got nothing big to say, like — wasn’t it, Master Marner?” 

“We called her Eppie,” said Silas. 

15 “Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, 
it ’ud be a deal handier. And so I’ll go now, Master 
Marner, and I’ll speak about the christening afore dark; 
and I wish you the best o’ luck, and it’s my belief as 
it’ll come to you, if you do what’s right by the orphin 
^0 child; — and there’s the ’noculation to be seen to; and as 
to washing its bits o’ things, you need look to nobody 
but me, for I can do ’em wi’ one hand when I’ve got my 
suds about. Eh, the blessed angil! You’ll let me bring 
my Aaron one o’ these days, and he’ll show her his little 
25 cart as his father’s made for him, and the black-and- 
white pup as he’s got a-rearing.” 

Baby was christened, the rector deciding that a double 
baptism was the lesSer risk to incur ; and on this occasion 
Silas, making himself as clean and tidy as he could, 
30 appeared for the first time within the church, and shared 
in the observances held sacred by his neighbors. He was 
quite unable, by means of anything he heard or saw, 
to identify the Raveloe religion with his old faith ; if he 


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could at any time in his previous life have done so, it 
must have been by the aid of a strong feeling ready 
to vibrate with sympathy rather than by a comparison 
of phrases and ideas ; and now for long years that feel- 
ing had been dormant. He had no distinct idea about 
the baptism and the church-going, except that Dolly had 
said it was for the good of the child; and in this way, 
as the weeks grew to months, the child created fresh 
and fresh links between his life and the lives from which 
he had hitherto shrunk continually into narrower iso- 
lation. Unlike the gold which needed nothing, and 
must be worshipped in close-locked solitude, — which was 
hidden away from the daylight, was deaf to the song 
of birds, and started to no human tones, — Eppie was 
a creature of endless claims and ever-growing desires, 
seeking and loving sunshine, and living sounds, and liv- 
ing movements; making trial of everything, with trust 
in new joy, and stirring the human kindness in all eyes 
that looked on her. The gold had kept his thoughts in 
an ever-repeated circle, leading to nothing beyond itself ; 
but Eppie was an object compacted of changes and 
hopes that forced his thoughts onward, and carried them 
far away from their old eager pacing towards the same 
blank limit — carried them away to the new things that 
would come with the coming years, when Eppie would 
have learned to understand how her father Silas cared 
for her; and made him look for images of that time in 
the ties and charities that bound together the families 
of his neighbors. The gold had asked that he should 
sit weaving longer and longer, deafened and blinded 
more and more to all things except the monotony of 
his loom and the repetition of his web; but Eppie called 
him away from his weaving, and made him think all its 


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pauses a holiday, reawakening his senses with her fresh 
life, even to the old winter-flies that came crawling forth 
in the early spring sunshine, and warming him into joy 
because she had joy. 

5 And when the sunshine grew strong and lasting, so 
that the buttercups were thick in the meadows, Silas 
might be seen in the sunny mid-day, or in the late after- 
noon when the shadows were lengthening under the 
hedgerows, strolling out with uncovered head to carry 
10 Eppie beyond the Stone-pits to where the flowers grew, 
till they reached some favorite bank where he could sit 
down, while Eppie toddled to pluck the flowers, and 
make remarks to the winged things that murmured hap- 
pily above the bright petals, calling “Dad-dad’s” atten- 
15 tion continually by bringing him the flowers. Then she 
would turn her ear to some sudden bird-note, and Silas 
learned to please her by making signs of hushed stillness, 
that they might listen for the note to come again: so that 
when it came, she set up her small back and laughed 
20 with gurgling triumph. Sitting on the banks in this way, 
Silas began to look for the once familiar herbs again; 
and as the leaves, with their unchanged outline and 
markings, lay on his palm, there was a sense of crowd- 
ing remembrances from which he turned away timidly, 
25 taking refuge in Eppie’s little world, that lay lightly 
on his enfeebled spirit. 

As the child’s mind was growing into knowledge, his 
mind was growing into memory ; as her life unfolded, his 
soul, long stupefied in a cold, narrow prison, was unfold- 
30 ing too, and trembling gradually into full consciousness. 

It was an influence which must gather force with 
every new year: the tones that stirred Silas’s heart 
grew articulate, and called for more distinct answers; 


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shapes and sounds grew clearer for Eppie’s eyes and 
ears, and there was more that “Dad-dad” was imper- 
atively required to notice and account for. Also, by the 
time Eppie was three years old, she developed a fine 
capacity for mischief, and for devising ingenious ways 5 
of being troublesome, which found much exercise, not 
only for Silas’s patience, but for his watchfulness and 
penetration. Sorely was poor Silas puzzled on such 
occasions by the incompatible demands of love. Dolly 
Winthrop told him that punishment was good for Eppie, 10 
and that as for rearing a child without making it tingle 
a little in soft and safe places now and then, it was 
not to be done. 

“To be sure, there’s another thing you might do, 
Master Marner,” added Dolly meditatively; “you might 15 
shut her up once i’ the coal-hole. That was what I did 
wi’ Aaron; for I was that silly wi’ the youngest lad as 
I could never bear to smack him. Not as I could find 
i’ my heart to let him stay i’ the coal-hole more nor a 
minute, but it was enough to colly him all over, so as 20 
he must be new washed and dressed, and it was as good 
as a rod to him, — that was. But I put it upo’ your con- 
science, Master Marner, as there’s one of ’em you must 
choose, — ayther smacking or the coal-hole, — else she’ll 
get so masterful, there’ll be no holding her.” 25 

Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of 
this last remark; but his force of mind failed before 
the only two penal methods open to him, not only be- 
cause it was painful to him to hurt Eppie, but because 
he trembled at a moment’s contention with her, lest she 30 
should love him the less for it. Let even an affectionate 
Goliath get himself tied to a small tender thing, dread- 
ing to hurt it by pulling, and dreading still more to 


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snap the cord, and which of the two, pray, will be mas- 
ter? It was clear that Eppie, with her short toddling 
steps, must lead father Silas a pretty dance on any fine 
morning when circumstances favored mischief. 

5 For example. He had wisely chosen a broad strip of 
linen as a means of fastening her to his loom when he 
was busy; it made a broad belt round her waist, and was 
long enough to allow of her reaching the truckle-bed and 
sitting down on it, but not long enough for her to attempt 
10 any dangerous climbing. One bright summer’s morning 
Silas had been more engrossed than usual in “setting up” 
a new piece of work, an occasion on which his scissors 
were in requisition. These scissors, owing to an especial 
warning of Dolly’s, had been kept carefully out of 
15 Eppie’s reach; but the click of them had had a peculiar 
attraction for her ear, and, watching the results of that 
click, she had derived the philosophic lesson that the 
same cause would produce the same effect. Silas had 
seated himself in his loom, and the noise of weaving had 
20 begun, but he had left his scissors on a ledge which 
Eppie’s arm was long enough to reach; and now, like 
a small mouse, watching her opportunity, she stole 
quietly from her corner, secured the scissors, and tod- 
dled to the bed again, setting up her back as a mode of 
25 concealing the fact. She had a distinct intention as to 
the use of the scissors; and having cut the linen strip 
in a jagged but effectual manner, in two moments she 
had run out at the open door where the sunshine was 
inviting her, while poor Silas believed her to be a bet- 
30 ter child than usual. It was not until he happened to 
need his scissors that the terrible fact burst upon him: 
Eppie had run out by herself, — had perhaps fallen into 
the Stone-pit. Silas, shaken by the worst fear that could 


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have befallen him, rushed out, calling “Eppie !” and ran 
eagerly about the unenclosed space, exploring the dry 
cavities into which she might have fallen, and then 
gazing with questioning dread at the smooth red sur- 
face of the water. The cold drops stood on his brow. 
How long had she been out? There was one hope — 
that she had crept through the stile and got into the 
fields where he habitually took her to stroll. But the 
grass was high in the meadow, and there was no descry- 
ing her, if she were there, except by a close search that 
would be a trespass on Mr. Osgood’s crop. Still, that 
misdemeanor must be committed; and poor Silas, after 
peering all round the hedgerows, traversed the grass, 
beginning with perturbed vision to see Eppie behind 
every group of red sorrel, and to see her moving always 
farther as he approached. The meadow was searched in 
vain; and he got over the stile into the next field, look- 
ing with dying hope towards a small pond which was 
now reduced to its summer shallowness, so as to leave 
a wide margin of good adhesive mud. Here, however, 
sat Eppie, discoursing cheerfully to her own small boot, 
which she was using as a bucket to convey the water into 
a deep hoof-mark, while her little naked foot was planted 
comfortably on a cushion of olive-green mud. A red- 
headed calf was observing her with alarmed doubt 
through the opposite hedge. 

Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened 
child which demanded severe treatment; but Silas, over- 
come with convulsive joy at finding his treasure again, 
could do nothing but snatch her up, and cover her with 
half-sobbing kisses. It was not until he had carried 
her home, and had begun to think of the necessary 
washing, that he recollected the need that he should 


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punish Eppie, and “make her remember.” The idea 
that she might run away again and come to harm gave 
him unusual resolution, and for the first time he deter- 
mined to try the coal-hole — a small closet near the 
5 hearth. 

“Naughty, naughty Eppie,” he suddenly began, hold- 
ing her on his knee, and pointing to her muddy feet and 
clothes ; “naughty to cut with the scissors, and run away. 
Eppie must go into the coal-hole for being naughty. 
10 Daddy must put her in the coal-hole.” 

He half expected that this would be shock enough, 
and that Eppie would begin to cry. But instead of that, 
she began to shake herself on his'knee, as if the proposi- 
tion opened a pleasing novelty. Seeing that he must 
15 proceed to extremities, he put her into the coal-hole, and 
held the door closed, with a trembling sense that he was 
using a strong measure. For a moment there was 
silence, but then came a little cry, “Opy, opy !” and Silas 
let her out again, saying, “Now Eppie ’ull never be 
20 naughty again, else she must go in the coal-hole — a black, 
naughty place.” 

The weaving must stand still a long while this morn- 
ing, for now Eppie must be washed and have clean 
clothes on; but it was to be hoped that this punishment 
25 would have a lasting effect, and save time in future; 
though, perhaps, it would have been better if Eppie had 
cried more. 

In half an hour she was clean again, and Silas, hav- 
ing turned his back to see what he could do with the 
30 linen band, threw it down again, with the reflection 
that Eppie would be good without fastening for the rest 
of the morning. He turned round again, and was going 
to place her in her little chair near the loom, when shq 


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peeped out at him with black face and hands again, and 
said, “Eppie in de toal-hole !” 

This total failure of the coal-hole discipline shook 
Silas’s belief in the efficacy of punishment. “She’d take 
it all for fun,” he observed to Dolly, “if I didn’t hurt 
her, and that I can’t do, Mrs. Winthrop. If she makes 
me a bit o’ trouble I can bear it. And she’s got no 
tricks but what she’ll grow out of.” 

“Well, that’s partly true, Master Marner,” said Dolly 
sympathetically; “and if you can’t bring your mind to 
frighten her off touching things, you must do what you 
can to keep ’em out of her way. That’s what I do wi’ 
the pups as the lads are allays a-rearing. They will 
worry and gnaw — worry and gnaw they will, if it was 
one’s Sunday cap as hung anywhere so as they could 
drag it. They know no difference, God help ’em; it’s 
the pushing o’ the teeth as sets ’em on, that’s what 
it is.” 

So Eppie was reared without punishment, the bur- 
den of her misdeeds being borne vicariously by father 
Silas. The stone hut was made a soft nest for her, 
lined with downy patience; and also in the world that 
lay beyond the stone hut she knew nothing of frowns 
and denials. 

Notwithstanding the difficulty of carrying her and his 
yarn or linen at the same time, Silas took her with him 
in most of his journeys to the farm-houses, unwilling to 
leave her behind at Dolly Winthrop’s, who was always 
ready to take care of her; and little curly-headed Eppie, 
the weaver’s child, became an object of interest at 
several out-lying homesteads, as well as in the village. 
Hitherto he had been treated very much as if he had 
been a useful gnome or brownie, — a queer and unac- 


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countable creature, who must necessarily be looked at 
with wondering curiosity and repulsion, and with whom 
one would be glad to make all greetings and bargains as 
brief as possible, but who must be dealt with in a propiti- 
5 atory way, and occasionally have a present of pork or 
garden-stuff to carry home with him, seeing that without 
him there was no getting the yarn woven. But now 
Silas met with open, smiling faces and cheerful question- 
ing, as a person whose satisfactions and difficulties could 
10 be understood. Everywhere he must sit a little and talk 
about the child, and words of interest were always ready 
for him: “Ah, Master Marner, you’ll be lucky if she 
takes the measles soon and easy!” — or, “Why, there 
isn’t many lone men ’ud ha’ been wishing to take up with 
15 a little un like that ; but I reckon the weaving makes you 
handier than men as do outdoor work; you’re partly as 
handy as a woman, for weaving comes next to spinning.” 
Elderly masters and mistresses, seated observantly in 
large kitchen armchairs, shook their heads over the diffi- 
20 culties attendant on rearing children, felt Eppie’s round 
arms and legs, and pronounced them remarkably firm, and 
told Silas that, if she turned out well (which, however, 
there was no telling), it would be a fine thing for him to 
have a steady lass to do for him when he got helpless. Ser- 
25 vant maidens were fond of carrying her out to look at 
the hens and chickens, or to see if any cherries could be 
shaken down in the orchard; and the small boys and 
girls approached her slowly, with cautious movement 
and steady gaze, like little dogs face to face with one 
30 of their own kind, till attraction had reached the point 
at which the soft lips were put out for a kiss. No child 
was afraid of approaching Silas when Eppie was near 
him: there was no repulsion around him now, either for 


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young or old; for the little child had come to link him 
once more with the whole world. There was love be- 
tween him and the child that blent them into one, and 
there was love between the child and the world — from 
men and women with parental looks and tones to the red 
lady-birds and the round pebbles. 

Silas began now to think of Raveloe life entirely in 
relation to Eppie: she must have everything that was a 
good in Raveloe; and he listened docilely, that he might 
come to understand better what this life was, from 
which, for fifteen years, he had stood aloof as from a 
strange thing, wherewith he could have no communion; 
as some man who has a precious plant to which he 
would give a nurturing home in a new soil thinks of the 
rain, and the sunshine, and all influences, in relation to 
his nursling, and asks industriously for all knowledge 
that will help to satisfy the wants of the searching roots, 
or to guard leaf and bud from invading harm. The dis- 
position to hoard had been utterly crushed at the very 
first by the loss of his long-stored gold; the coins he 
earned afterwards seemed as irrelevant as stones brought 
to complete a house suddenly buried by an earthquake; 
the sense of bereavement was too heavy upon him for 
the old thrill of satisfaction to arise again at the touch 
of the newly-earned coin. And now something had come 
to replace his hoard which gave a growing purpose to 
the earnings, drawing his hope and joy continually on- 
ward beyond the money. 

In old days there were angels who came and took 
men by the hand and led them away from the city of 
destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. But 
yet men are led away from threatening destruction: a 
hand is put into theirs which leads them forth gently 


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towards a calm and bright land, so that they look no 
more backward ; and the hand may be a little child’s. 

CHAPTER XV 

There was one person, as you will believe, who 
watched, with keener though more hidden ihterest 
5 than any other, the prosperous growth of Eppie under 
the weaver’s care. He dared not do anything that 
would imply a stronger interest in a poor man’s 
adopted child than could be expected from the kind- 
liness of the young Squire, when a chance meeting 
10 suggested a little present to a simple old fellow whom 
others noticed with good-will ; but he told himself that 
the time would come when he might do something to- 
wards furthering the welfare of his daughter without 
incurring suspicion. Was he very uneasy in the mean 
15 time at his inability to give his daughter her birthright? 
I cannot say that he w’as. The child was being taken care 
of, and would very likely be happy, as people in humble 
stations often were — happier, perhaps, than those 
brought up in luxury. 

20 That famous ring that pricked its owner when he 
forgot duty and followed desire — I wonder if it pricked 
very hard when he set out on the chase, or whether 
it pricked but lightly then, and only pierced to the quick 
when the chase had long been ended, and Hope, fold- 
25 ing her wings, looked backward and became Regret ? 

Godfrey Cass’s cheek and eye were brighter than 
ever now. He was so undivided in his aims that he 
seemed like a man of firmness. No Dunsey had come 
back; people had made up their minds that he was 
30 gone for a soldier, or gone “out of the country,” and 


SILAS MARNER 


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no one cared to be specific in their inquiries on a sub- 
ject delicate to a respectable family. Godfrey had 
ceased to see the shadow of Dunsey across his path; 
and the path now lay straight forward to the accom- 
plishment of his best, longest-cherished wishes. Every- 
body said Mr. Godfrey had taken the right turn; and 
it was pretty clear what would be the end of things, 
for there were not many days in the week that he was 
not seen riding to the Warrens. Godfrey himself, when 
he was asked jocosely if the day had been fixed, smiled 
with the pleasant consciousness of a lover who could 
say “yes,” if he liked. He felt a reformed man, delivered 
from temptation ; and the vision of his future life seemed 
to him as a promised land for which he had no 
cause to fight. He saw himself with all his happiness 
centred on his own hearth, while Nancy would smile on 
him as he played with the children. 

• And that other child — not on the hearth — he would 
not forget it; he would see that it was well provided 
for. That was a father’s duty. 

CHAPTER XVI ‘ 

It was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after 
Silas Marner had found his new treasure on the hearth. 
The bells of the old Raveloe church were ringing the 
cheerful peal which told that the morning service was 
ended; and out of the arched doorway in the tower came 
slowly, retarded by friendly greetings and questions, 
the richer parishioners who had chosen this bright Sun- 
day morning as eligible for church-going. It was the 
rural fashion of that time for the more important mem- 
bers of the congregation to depart first, while their hum- 


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bier neighbors waited and looked on, stroking their 
bent heads or dropping their curtsies to any large rate- 
payer who turned to notice them. 

Foremost among these advancing groups of well-clad 
5 people there was some whom we shall recognize, in spite 
of Time, who had laid his hand on them all. The tall 
blond man of forty is not much changed in feature from 
the Godfrey Cass of six and twenty; he is not fuller in 
flesh, and has only lost the indefinable look of youth, — 
10 a loss which is marked even when the eye is undulled 
and the wrinkles are not yet come. Perhaps the pretty 
woman, not much younger than he, who is leaping on his 
arm, is more changed than her husband ; the lovely bloom 
that used to be always on her cheek now comes but fit- 
15 fully, with the fresh morning air or with some strong 
surprise; yet to all who love human faces best for what 
they tell of human experience, Nancy’s has a heightened 
interest. Often the soul is ripened into fuller goodness 
while age has spread an ugly film, so that mere glances 
20 can never divine the preciousness of the fruit. But the 
years have not been so cruel to Nancy. The firm yet 
placid mouth, the clear veracious glance of the brown 
eyes, speak now of a nature that has been tested and 
has kept its highest qualities; and even the costume, 
25 with its dainty neatness and purity, has more signifi- 
cance now the coquetries of youth can have nothing to 
do with it. 

Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any higher title has 
died away from Raveloe lips since the old Squire was 
30 gathered to his fathers and his inheritance was divided) 
have turned round to look for the tall aged man and the 
plainly dressed woman who are a little behind, — Nancy 
having observed that they must wait for “father and 


SILAS MARNER 


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Priscilla/’ — and now they all turn into a narrower path 
leading across the churchyard to a small gate opposite 
the Red House. We will not follow them now; for may 
there not be some others in this departing congregation 
whom we should like to see again, — some of those who 
are not likely to be handsomely clad, and whom we may 
not recognize so easily as the master and mistress of the 
Red House? 

But it is impossible to mistake Silas Marner. His 
large brown eyes seem to have gathered a longer vision, 
as is the way with eyes that have been short-sighted 
in early life, and they have a less vague, a more answer- 
ing gaze; but in everything else one sees signs of a 
frame much enfeebled by the lapse of the sixteen years. 
The weaver’s bent shoulders and white hair give him 
almost the look of advanced age, though he is not more 
than five and fifty ; but there is the freshest blossom of 
youth close by his side — a blond, dimpled girl of eigh- 
teen, who has vainly tried to chastise her curly auburn 
hair into smoothness under her brown bonnet; the hair 
ripples as obstinately as a brooklet under the March 
breeze, and the little ringlets burst away from the re- 
straining comb behind and show themselves below the 
bonnet-crown. Eppie cannot help being rather vexed 
about her hair, for there is no other girl in Raveloe who 
has hair at all like it, and she thinks hair ought to be 
smooth. She does not like to be blameworthy even in 
small things: you see how neatly her prayer-book is 
folded in her spotted handkerchief. 

That good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian 
suit, who walks behind her, is not quite sure upon the 
question of hair in the abstract when Eppie puts it to 
him, and thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best 


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in general, but he doesn’t want Eppie’s hair to be dif- 
ferent. She surely divines that there is some one be- 
hind her who is thinking about her very particularly, 
and mustering courage to come to her side as soon as 
5 they are out in the lane, else why should she look 
rather shy, and take care not to turn away her head 
from her father Silas, to whom she keeps murmuring 
little sentences as to who was at church, and who was 
not at church, and how pretty the red mountain-ash is 
10 over the Rectory wall! 

“I wish we had a little . garden, father, with double 
daisies in, like Mrs. Winthrop’s,” said Eppie, when they 
were out in the lane; “only they say it ’ud take a deal 
of digging and bringing fresh soil, — and you couldn’t 
15 do that, could you, father? Anyhow, I shouldn’t like 
you to do it, for it ’ud be too hard work for you. 

“Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o’ garden: 
these long evenings I could work at taking in a little 
bit o’ the waste, just enough for a root or two o’ flowers 
20 for you; and again, i’ the morning, I could have a turn 
wi’ the spade before I sat down to the loom. Why 
didn’t you tell me before as you wanted a bit o’ garden?” 

“I can dig it for you, Master Marner,” said the 
young man in fustian, who was now by Eppie’s side, 
25 entering into the conversation without the trouble of 
formalities. “It’ll be play to me after I’ve done my 
day’s work, or any odd bits o’ time when the work’s 
slack. And I’ll bring you some soil from Mr. Cass’s 
garden — he’ll let me, and willing.” 

30 “Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?” said Silas. “I 
wasn’t aware of you; for when Eppie’s talking o’ things, 
I see nothing but what she’s a-saying. Well, if you 
could help me with the digging, we might get her a 
bit o’ garden all the sooner.” 


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“Then, if you think well and good/’ said Aaron, “I’ll 
come to the Stone-pits this afternoon, and we’ll settle 
what land’s to be taken in, and I’ll get up an hour 
earlier i’ the morning, and begin on it.” 

“But not if you don’t promise me not to work at the 
hard digging, father,” said Eppie. “For I shouldn’t 
ha’ said anything about it,” she added, half bashfully, 
half roguishly, “only Mrs. Winthrop said as Aaron ’ud 
be so good, and” — 

“And you might ha’ known it without mother telling 
you,” said Aaron. “And Master Marner knows too, I 
hope, as I’m able and willing to do a turn o’ work for 
him, and he won’t do me the unkindness to anyways 
take it out o’ my hands.” 

“There, now, father, you won’t work in it till it’s 
all easy,” said Eppie; “and you and me can mark out 
the beds, and make holes and plant the roots. It’ll be 
a deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we’ve got some 
flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us and 
know what we’re talking about. And I’ll have a bit o’ 
rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, because they’re so 
sweet-smelling; but there’s no lavender only in the gen- 
tlefolks’ gardens, I think.” 

“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t have some,” 
said Aaron, “for I can bring you slips of anything; I’m 
forced to cut no end of ’em when I’m gardening, and 
throw ’em away mostly. There’s a big bed o’ lavender 
at the Red House; the missis is very fond of it.” 

“Well,” said Silas gravely, “ so as you don’t make 
free for us, or ask for anything as is worth much at 
the Red House; for Mr. Cass’s been so good to us, and 
built us up the new end o’ the cottage, and given us 


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beds and things, as I couldn’t abide to be imposin’ for 
garden-stuff or anything else.” 

“No, no, there’s no imposin’,” said Aaron; “there’s 
never a garden in all the parish but what there’s end- 
5 less waste in it for want o’ somebody as could use every- 
thing up. It’s what I think to myself sometimes, as 
there need nobody run short o’ victuals if the land was 
made the most on, and there was never a morsel but 
what could find its way to a mouth. It sets one thinking 
10 o’ that — gardening does. But I must go back now, else 
mother ’ull be in trouble as I aren’t there.” 

“Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron,” said 
Eppie; “I shouldn’t like to fix about the garden, and her 
not know everjffhing from the first — should you , father?” 
15 “Ay, bring her if you can, Aaron,” said Silas; “she’s 
sure to have a word to say as’ll help us to set things 
on their right end.” 

Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and 
Eppie went on up the lonely sheltered lane. 

20 “O daddy!” she began, when they were in privacy, 
clasping and squeezing Silas’s arm, and skipping round 
to give him an energetic kiss. “My little old daddy! 
I’m so glad. I don’t think I shall want anything else 
when we’ve got a little garden ; and I knew Aaron would 
25 dig it for us,” she Went on with roguish triumph; “I 
knew that very well.” 

“You’re a deep little puss, you are,” said Silas, with 
the mild, passive happiness of love-crowned age in his 
face; “but you’ll make yourself fine and beholden to 
30 Aaron.” 

“Oh, no, I shan’t,” said Eppie, laughing and frisking; 
“he likes it.” 

“Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else 
you’ll be dropping it, jumping i’ that way.” 


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Eppie was now aware that her behavior was under 
observation, but it was only the observation of a friendly 
donkey browsing with a log fastened to his foot — a meek 
donkey, not scornfully critical of human trivialities, but 
thankful to share in them, if possible, by getting his 
nose scratched; and Eppie did not fail to gratify him 
with her usual notice, though it was attended with the 
inconvenience of his following them, painfully, up to 
the very door of their home. 

But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put 
the key in the door, modified the donkey’s views, and 
he limped away again without bidding. The sharp bark 
was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting 
them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing 
at their legs in a hysterical manner, rushed with a worry- 
ing noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under the loom, and 
then rushed back with a sharp bark again, as much as 
to say, “I have done my duty by this feeble creature, 
you perceive;” while the lady-mother of the kitten sat 
sunning her white bosom in the window, and looked 
round with a sleepy air of expecting caresses, though 
she was not going to take any trouble for them. 

The presence of this happy animal life was not the 
only change which had come over the interior of the 
stone cottage. There was no bed now in the living-room, 
and the small space was well filled with decent furni- 
ture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy Dolly Win- 
throp’s eye. The oaken table and three-cornered oaken 
chair were hardly what was likely to be seen in so poor 
a cottage ; they had come, with the beds and other things, 
from the Red House; for Mr. Godfrey Cass, as every 
one said in the village, did very kindly by the weaver; 


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and it was nothing but right a man should be looked 
on and helped by those who could afford it, when he 
had brought up an orphan child, and been father and 
mother to her, — and had lost his money, too, so as he 
5 had nothing but what he worked for week by week, and 
when the weaving was going down, too, — for there was 
less and less flax spun, — and Master Marner was none 
so young. Nobody was jealous of the weaver, for he 
was regarded as an exceptional person, whose claims on 
10 neighborly help were not to be matched in Raveloe. 
Any superstition that remained concerning him had 
taken an entirely new color; and Mr. Macey, now a 
very feeble old man of fourscore and six, never seen 
except in his chimney-corner or sitting in the sunshine 
15 at his door-sill, was of opinion that when a man had 
done what Silas had done by an orphan child, it was a 
sign that his money would come to light again, or least- 
wise that the robber would be made to answer for it; 
for, as Mr. Macey observed of himself, his faculties 
20 were as strong as ever. 

Silas sat down now and watched Eppie with a satis- 
fied gaze as she spread the clean cloth, and set on it 
the potato-pie, warmed up slowly in a safe Sunday 
fashion, by being put into a dry pot over a slowly dying 
25 fire, as the best substitute for an oven. For Silas would 
not consent to have a grate and oven added to his 
conveniences: he loved the old brick hearth as he had 
loved his brown pot, — and was it not there when he 
had found Eppie? The gods of the hearth exist for 
30 us still; and let all new faith be tolerant of that fetish- 
ism, lest it bruise its own roots. 

Silas ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon 
laying down his knife and fork, and watching half 


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abstractedly Eppie’s play with Snap and the cat, by 
which her own dining was made rather a lengthy busi- 
ness. Yet it was a sight that might well arrest wander- 
ing thoughts: Eppie, with the rippling radiance of her 
hair and the whiteness of her rounded chin and throat 
set off by the dark blue cotton gown, laughing merrily 
as the kitten held on with her four paws to one shoulder, 
like a design for a jug-handle, while Snap on the right 
hand and Puss on the other put up their paws towards 
a morsel which she held out of the reach of both, — 
Snap occasionally desisting in order to remonstrate with 
the cat by a cogent worrying growl on the greediness 
and futility of her conduct; till Eppie relented, caressed 
them both, and divided the morsel between them. 

But at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked the 
play and said, “O daddy, you’re wanting to go into the 
sunshine to smoke your pipe. But I must clear away 
first, so as the house may be tidy when godmother comes. 
I’ll make haste — I won’t be long.” 

Silas had taken to smoking a pipe daily during the 
last two years, having been strongly urged to it by the 
sages of Raveloe, as a practice “good_ for the fits;” and 
this advice was sanctioned by Dr. Kimble, on the ground 
that it was as well to try what could do no harm, — a 
principle which was made to answer for a great deal of 
work in that gentleman’s medical practice. Silas did 
not highly enjoy smoking, and often wondered how his 
neighbors could be so fond of it; but a humble sort of 
acquiescence in what was held to be good had become a 
strong habit of that new self which had been developed 
in him since he had found Eppie on his hearth; it had 
been the only clue his bewildered mind could hold by 
in cherishing this young life that had been sent to him 


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out of the darkness into which his gold had departed. 
By seeking what was needful for Eppie, by sharing the 
effect that everything produced on her, he had himself 
come to appropriate the forms of custom and belief 
5 which were the mould of Raveloe life; and as, with 
reawakening sensibilities, memory also reawakened, he 
had begun to ponder over the elements of his old faith, 
and blend them with his new impressions, till he recov- 
ered a consciousness of unity between his past and 
10 present. The sense of presiding goodness and the human 
trust which come with all pure peace and joy had given 
him a dim impression that there had been some error, 
some mistake, which had thrown that dark shadow 
over the days of his best years; and as it grew more 
15 and more easy to him to open his mind to Dolly Win- 
throp, he gradually communicated to her all he could 
describe of his early life. The communication was 
necessarily a slow and difficult process, for Silas’s 
meagre power of explanation was not aided by any 
20 readiness of interpretation in Dolly, whose narrow out- 
ward experience gave her no key to strange customs, 
and made every novelty a source of wonder that arrested 
them at every step of the narrative. It was only by 
fragments, and at intervals which left Dolly time to 
25 revolve what she had heard till it acquired some famil- 
iarity for her, that Silas at last arrived at the climax 
of the sad story, — the drawing of lots, and its false 
testimony concerning him; and this had to be repeated 
in several interviews, under new questions on her part 
30 as to the nature of this plan for detecting the guilty 
and clearing the innocent. 

“And yourn’s the same Bible, you’re sure o’ that, 
Master Marner — the Bible as you brought wi’ you from 


SILAS MARNER 


205 


that country — it’s the same as what they ve got at 
church, and what Eppie’s a-learning to read in?” 

“Yes,” said Silas, “every bit the same; and there’s 
drawing o’ lots in the Bible, mind you,” he added in 
a lower tone. 5 

“Oh, dear, dear,” said Dolly, in a grieved voice, as 
if she were hearing an unfavorable report of a sick 
man’s case. She was silent for some minutes; at last 
she said, — 

“There’s wise folks, happen, as know how it all is; 10 
the parson knows, I’ll be bound; but it takes big words 
to tell them things, and such as poor folks can’t make 
much out on. I can never rightly know the meaning 
o’ what I hear at church, only a bit here and there, but 
I know it’s good words — I do. But what lies upo’ your 15 
mind — it’s this, Master Marner: as, if Them above had 
done the right thing by you, They’d never ha’ let you 
be turned out for a wicked thief when you was innicent.” 

“Ah!” said Silas, who had now come to understand 
Dolly’s phraseology, “that was what fell on me like as 20 
if it had been red-hot iron; because, you see, there was 
nobody as cared for me or clave to me above nor below. 
And him as I’d gone out and in wi’ for ten year and 
more, since when we was lads and went halves — mine 
own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, had lifted up his 25 
heel again’ me, and worked to ruin me.” 

“Eh, but he was a bad un — I can’t think as there’s 
another such,” said Dolly. “But I’m o’ercome Master 
Marner; I’m like as if I’d waked and didn’t know 
whether it was night or morning. I feel somehow as 30 
sure as I do when I’ve laid something up though I can’t 
justly put my hand on it, as there was a rights in what 
happened to you, if one could but make it out; and you’d 


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no call to lose heart as you did. But we’ll talk on it 
again; for sometimes things come into my head when I’m 
leeching or poulticing, or such, as I could never think 
on when I was sitting still.” 

5 Dolly was too useful a woman not to have many 
opportunities of illumination of the kind she alluded 
to, and she was not long before she recurred to the 
subj ect. 

“Master Marner,” she said, one day that she came 
10 to bring home Eppie’s washing, “I’ve been sore puz- 
zled for a good bit wi’ that trouble o’ yourn and the 
drawing o’ lots ; and it got twisted back’ards and 
for’ards, as I didn’t know which end to lay hold on. 
But it come to me all clear like, that night when I was 
15 sitting up wi’ poor Bessy Fawkes, as is dead and left 
her children behind, God help ’em — it come to me as 
clear as daylight; but whether I’ve got hold on it 
now, or can anyways bring it to my tongue’s end, that 
I don’t know. For I’ve often a deal inside me as ’ll 
20 never come out; and for what you talk o’ yours folks in 
your old country niver saying prayers by heart nor 
saying ’em out of a book, they must be wonderful diver ; 
for if I didn’t know ‘Our Father,’ and little bits o’ good 
words as I can carry out o’ church wi’ me, I might down 
25 o’ my knees every night, but nothing could I say.” 

“But you can mostly say something as I can make 
sense on, Mrs. Winthrop,” said Silas. 

“Well, then, Master Marner, it come to me summat 
like this: I can make nothing o’ the drawing o’ lots 
30 and the answer coming wrong; it ’ud mayhap take 
the parson to tell that, and he could only tell us i’ big 
words. But what come to me as clear as the daylight, 
it was when I was troubling over poor Bessy Fawkes, 


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and it allays comes into my head when I’m sorry for 
folks, and feel as I can’t do a power to help ’em, not if 
I was to get up i’ the middle o’ the night — it comes 
into my head as Them above has got a deal tenderer 
heart nor what I’ve got — for I can’t be anyways better 
nor Them as made me; and if anything looks hard to 
me, it’s because there’s things I don’t know on; and 
for the matter o’ that, there may be plenty o’ things 
I don’t know” on, for it’s little as I know — that it is. 
And so, while I was thinking o’ that, you come into 
my mind, Master Marner, and it all come pouring in: — 
If / felt i’ my inside what was the right and just thing 
by you, and them as prayed and drawed the lots, all 
but that wicked un, if they ’d ha’ done the right thing 
by you if they could, isn’t there Them as was at the 
making on us, and knows better and has a better will? 
And that’s all as ever I can be sure on, and everything 
else is a big puzzle to me when I think on it. For there 
was the fever come and took off them as were full- 
growed, and left the helpless children; and there’s the 
breaking o’ limbs; and them as ’ud do right and be 
sober have to suffer by them as are contrairy — eh, there’s 
trouble i’ this world, and there’s things as we can niver 
make out the rights on. And all as we’ve got to do is to 
trusten, Master Marner — to do the right thing as fur as 
we know, and to trusten. For if us as knows so little 
can see a bit o’ good and rights, we may be sure as 
there’s a good and rights bigger nor what we can know — 
I feel it i’ my own inside as it must be so.. And if you 
could but ha’ gone on trustening, Master Marner, you 
wouldn’t ha’ run away from your fellow-creaturs and 
been so lone.” 

“Ah, but that ’ud ha’ been hard,” said Silas, in an 


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undertone; “it ’ud ha’ been hard to trusten then.” 

“And so it would,” said Dolly, almost with com- 
punction; “them things are easier said nor done; and 
I’m partly ashamed o’ talking.” 

5 “Nay, nay,” said Silas, “you’re i’ the right, Mrs. 
Winthrop — you’re i’ the right. There’s good i’ this 
world — I’ve a feeling o’ that now; and it makes a man 
feel as there’s a good more nor he can see, i’ spite o’ the 
trouble and the wickedness. That drawing o’ the lots 
10 is dark; but the child was sent to me: there’s dealings 
with us — there’s dealings.” 

This dialogue took place in Eppie’s earlier years, 
when Silas had to part with her for two hours every 
day, that she might learn to read at the dame school, 
15 after he had vainly tried himself to guide her in that 
first step to learning. Now that she was grown up, 
Silas had often been led, in those moments of quiet 
outpouring which come to people who live together in 
perfect love, to talk with her, too, of the past, and how 
20 and why he had lived a lonely man until she had been 
sent to him. For it would have been impossible for 
him to hide from Eppie that she was not his own child: 
even if the most delicate reticence on the point could 
have been expected from Raveloe gossips in her presence, 
25 her own questions about her mother could not have been 
parried, as she grew up, without that complete shroud- 
ing of the past which would have made a painful barrier 
between their minds. So Eppie had long known how 
her mother had died on the snowy ground, and how she 
30 herself had been found on the hearth by father Silas, 
who had taken her golden curls for his lost guineas 
brought back to him. The tender and peculiar love with 
which Silas had reared her in almost inseparable com- 


SILAS MARNER 


209 


panionship with himself, aided by the seclusion of their 
dwelling, had preserved her from the lowering influences 
of the village talk and habits, and had kept her mind in 
that freshness which is sometimes falsely supposed to be 
an invariable attribute of rusticity. Perfect love has 
a breath of poetry which can exalt the relations of the 
least instructed human beings ; and this breath of poetry 
had surrounded Eppie from the time when she had fol- 
lowed the bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas’s 
hearth; so that it is not surprising if, in other things 
besides her delicate prettiness, she was not quite a 
common village maiden, but had a touch of refinement 
and fervor which came from no other teaching than that 
of tenderly nurtured unvitiated feeling. She was too 
childish and simple for her imagination to rove into 
questions about her unknown father; for a long while 
it did not even occur to her that she must have had a 
father; and the first time that the idea of her mother 
having had a husband presented itself to her was when 
Silas showed her the wedding-ring which had been taken 
from the wasted finger, and had been carefully preserved 
by him in a little lacquered box shaped like a shoe. He 
delivered this box into Eppie’s charge when she had 
grown up, and she often opened it to look at the ring; 
but still she thought hardly at all about the father of 
whom it was the symbol. Had she not a father very 
close to her, who loved her better than any real fathers 
in the village seemed to love their daughters? On the 
contrary, who her mother was and how she came to die 
in that forlornness were questions that often pressed on 
Eppie’s mind: Her knowledge of Mrs. Winthrop, who 
was her nearest friend next to Silas, made her feel that 
a mother must be very precious; and she had again and 


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again asked Silas to tell her how her mother looked, 
whom she was like, and how he had found her against 
the furze bush, led towards it by the little foot-steps and 
the outstretched arms. The furze bush was there still; 
5 and this afternoon, when Eppie came out with Silas into 
the sunshine, it was the first object that arrested her 
eyes and thoughts. 

“Father/’ she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which 
sometimes came like a sadder, slower cadence across her 
10 playfulness, “ we shall take the furze bush into the 
garden; it’ll come into the corner, and just against it 
I’ll put snowdrops and crocuses, ’cause Aaron says they 
won’t die out, but ’ll always get more and more.” 

“Ah, child,” said Silas, always ready to talk when he 
15 had his pipe in his hand, apparently enjoying the pauses 
more than the puffs, “it wouldn’t do to leave out the 
furze bush ; and there’s nothing prettier, to my thinking, 
when it’s yallow with flowers. But it’s just come into 
my head what we’re to do for a fence — mayhap Aaron 
20 can help us to a thought; but a fence we must have, 
else the donkeys and things ’ull come and trample every- 
thing down. And fencing’s hard to be got at, by what 
I can make out.” 

“Oh, I’ll tell you, daddy,” said Eppie, clasping her 
25 hands suddenly, after a minute’s thought. “There’s lots 
o’ loose stones about, some of ’em not big, and we might 
lay ’em atop of one another, and make a wall. You and 
me could carry the smallest, and Aaron ’ud carry the 
rest — I know he would.” 

30 “Eh, my precious un,” said Silas, “there isn’t enough 
stones to go all round; and as for you carrying, why, 
wi’ your little arms you couldn’t carry a stone no bigger 
than a turnip. You’re dillicate made, my dear,” he 


SILAS MARNER 


211 


added, with a tender intonation — “that’s what Mrs. Win- 
throp says.” 

“Oh, I’m stronger than you think, daddy,” said Eppie ; 
“and if there wasn’t stones enough to go all round, why 
they’ll go part o’ the way, and then it’ll be easier to get 
sticks and things for the rest. See here, round the big 
pit, what a many stones !” 

She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one 
of the stones and exhibit her strength, but she started 
back in surprise. 

“Oh, father, just come and look here,” she exclaimed 
— “come and see how the water’s gone down since yes^ 
terday ! Why, yesterday the pit was ever so full !” 

“Well, to be sure,” said Silas, coming to her side. 
“Why that’s the draining they’ve begun on, since har- 
vest, i’ Mr. Osgood’s fields, I reckon. The foreman said 
to me the other day, when I passed by em, ‘Master Mar- 
ner,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if we lay your bit o’ 
waste as dry as a bone.’ It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, he 
said, had gone into the draining: he’d been taking these 
fields o’ Mr. Osgood.” 

“How odd it ’ll seem to have the old pit dried up !” 
said Eppie, turning away, and stooping to lift rather 
a large stone. “See, daddy, I can carry this quite 
well,” she said, going along with much energy for a 
few steps, but presently letting it fall. 

“Ah, you’re fine and strong, aren’t you?” said Silas, 
while Eppie shook her aching arms and laughed. “Come, 
come, let us go and sit down on the bank against the 
stile there, and have no more lifting. You might hurt 
yourself, child. You’d need have somebody to work for 
you — and my arm isn’t over strong.” 

Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it im- 


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plied more than met the ear; and Eppie, when they sat 
down on the bank, nestled close to his side, and, taking 
hold caressingly of the arm that was not over strong, 
held it on her lap, while Silas puffed again dutifully 
5 at the pipe, which occupied his other arm. An ash in 
the hedgerow behind made a fretted screen from the 
sun, and threw happy playful shadows all about them. 

“Father,” said Eppie, very gently, after they had 
been sitting in silence a little while, “if I was to be mar- 
10 ried, ought I to be married with my mother’s ring?” 

Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the 
question fell in with the under-current of thought in 
his own mind, and then said, in a subdued tone, “Why, 
Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?” 

15 “Only this last week, father,” said Eppie, ingenu- 
ously, “since Aaron talked to me about it.” 

“And what did he say?” said Silas, still in the same 
subdued way, as if he were anxious lest he should fall 
into the slighest tone that was not for Eppie’s good. 

20 “He said he should like to be married, because he 
was a-going in four and twenty, and had got a deal of 
gardening work, now Mr. Mott’s given up; and he goes 
twice a week regular to Mr. Cass’s, and once to Mr. 
Osgood’s, and they’re going to take him on at the Rec- 
25 tory.” 

“And who is it as he’s wanting to marry?” said Silas, 
with rather a sad smile. 

“Why, me, to be sure, daddy,” said Eppie, with dimp- 
ling laughter, kissing her father’s cheek; “as if he’d 
30 want to marry anybody else !” 

“And you mean to have him, do you?” said Silas. 

“Yes, some time,” said Eppie, “I don’t know when. 
Everybody’s married some time, Aaron says. But I 


SILAS MARNER 


213 


told him that wasn’t true; for, I said, look at father — 
he’s never been married.” 

“No, child,” said Silas, “your father was a lone man 
till you was sent to him.” 

“But you’ll never be lone again, father,” said Eppie 
tenderly. “That was what Aaron said — T could never 
think o’ taking you away from Master Marner, Eppie.’ 
And I said, ‘It ’ud be no use if you did, Aaron.’ And he 
wants us all to live together, so as you needn’t work a 
bit, father, only what’s for your own pleasure; and he’d 
be as good as a son to you — that was what he said.” 

“And should you like that, Eppie?” said Silas, look- 
ing at her. 

“I shouldn’t mind it, father,” said Eppie, quite 
simply. “And I should like things to be so as you 
needn’t work much. But if it wasn’t for that, I’d sooner 
things didn’t change. I’m very happy: I like Aaron to 
be fond of me, and come and see us often, and behave 
pretty to you — he always does behave pretty to you, 
doesn’t he, father?” 

“Yes, child, nobody could behave better,” said Silas 
emphatically. “He’s his mother’s lad.” 

“But I don’t want any change,” said Eppie. “I 
should like to go on a long, long while, just as we are. 
Only Aaron does want a change; and he made me cry 
a bit — only a bit — because he said I didn’t care for him, 
for if I cared for him I should want us to be married, 
as he did.” 

“Eh, my blessed child,” said Silas, laying down his 
pipe as if it were useless to pretend to smoke any longer, 
“you’re o’er young to be married. We’ll ask Mrs. Win- 
throp — we’ll ask Aaron’s mother what she thinks; if 
there’s a right thing to do, she’ll come at it. But there’s 


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this to be thought on, Eppie: things will change, whether 
we like it or not; things won’t go on for a long while 
just as they are and no difference. I shall get older and 
helplesser, and be a burden on you, belike, if I don’t go 
5 away from you altogether. Not as I mean you’d think me 
a burden — I know you wouldn’t — but it ’ud be hard upon 
you; and when I look for’ard to that, I like to think 
as you’d have somebody else besides me — somebody 
young and strong, as’ll outlast your own life, and take 
10 care on you to the end.” Silas paused, and, resting his 
wrists on his knees, lifted his hands up and down med- 
itatively as he looked on the ground. 

“Then, would you like me to be married, father?” 
said Eppie, with a little trembling in her voice. 

15 “I’ll not be the man to say no, Eppie,” said Silas 
emphatically; “but we’ll ask your godmother. She’ll 
wish the right thing by you and her son, too.” 

“There they come then,” said Eppie. “Let us go and 
meet ’em. Oh, the pipe! won’t you have it lit again, 
20 father?” said Eppie, lifting that medicinal appliance 
from the ground. 

“Nay, child,” said Silas, “I’ve done enough for to- 
day. I think, mayhap, a little of it does me more good 
than so much at once.” 

CHAPTER XVII 

25 While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank 
discoursing in the fleckered shade of the ash-tree, Miss 
Priscilla Lammeter was resisting her sister’s arguments, 
that it would be better to take tea at the Red House, 
and let her father have a long nap, than drive home to 
30 the Warrens so soon after dinner. The family party 


SILAS MARNER 


215 


(of four only) were seated round the table in the dark 
wainscoted parlor, with the Sunday dessert before them, 
of fresh filberts, apples, and pears, duly ornamented 
with leaves by Nancy’s own hand before the bells had 
rung for church. 

A great change has come over the dark wainscoted 
parlor since we saw it in Godfrey’s bachelor days, and 
under the wifeless reign of the old Squire. Now all 
is polish, on which no yesterday’s dust is ever allowed 
to rest, from the yard’s width of oaken boards round 
the carpet to the old Squire’s gun and whips and walk- 
ing-sticks, ranged on the stag’s antlers above the mantel- 
piece. All other signs of sporting and outdoor occupa- 
tion Nancy has removed to another room; but she has 
brought into the Red House the habit of filial reverence, 
and preserves sacredly in a place of honor these relics 
of her husband’s departed father. The tankards are on 
the side-table still, but the bossed silver is undimmed 
by handling, and there are no dregs to send forth 
unpleasant suggestions: the only prevailing scent is of 
the lavender and rose-leaves that fill the vases of Derby- 
shire spar. All is purity and order in this once dreary 
room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered by a new pre- 
siding spirit. 

“Now, father,' ” said Nancy, “is there any call for 
you to go home to tea? Mayn’t you just as well stay 
with us? — such a beautiful evening as it’s likely to be.” 

The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey 
about the increasing poor-rate and the ruinous times, and 
had not heard the dialogue between his daughters. 

“My dear, you must ask Priscilla,” he said, in the 
once firm voice, now become rather broken. “She man- 
ages me and the farm too.” 


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“And reason good as I should manage you, father/* 
said Priscilla, “else you’d be giving yourself your death 
with rheumatism. And as for the farm, if anything 
turns out wrong, as it can’t but do in these times, there’s 
5 nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find 
fault with but himself. It’s a deal the best way o’ being 
master, to let somebody else do the ordering, and keep 
the blaming in your own hands. It ’ud save many a man 
a stroke, I believe.” 

10 “Well, well, my dear,” said her father, with a quiet 
laugh, “I didn’t say you don’t manage for everybody’s 
good.” 

“Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla,” 
said Nancy, putting her hand on her sister’s arm affec- 
15 tionately. “Come now; and we’ll go round the garden 
while father has his nap.” 

“My dear child, he’ll have a beautiful nap in the 
gig, for I shall drive. And as for staying tea, I can’t 
hear of it; for there’s this dairymaid, now she knows 
20 she’s to be married, turned Michaelmas, she’d as lieve 
pour the new milk into the pig-trough as into the pans. 
That’s the way with ’em all: it’s as if they thought the 
world ’ud be new-made because they’re to be married. 
So come and let me put my bonnet on, and there’ll be 
25 time for us to walk round the garden while the horse is 
being put in.” 

When the sisters were treading the neatly swept gar- 
den-walks, between the bright turf that contrasted 
pleasantly with the dark cones and arches and wall-like 
30 hedges of yew, Priscilla said, — 

“I’m as glad as anything at your husband’s making 
that exchange o’ land with cousin Osgood, and beginning 
the dairying. It’s a thousand pities you didn’t do it 


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before; for it’ll give you something to fill your mind. 
There’s nothing like a dairy if folks want a bit o’ worrit 
to make the days pass. For as for rubbing furniture, 
when you can once see your face in a table there’s noth- 
ing else to look for; but there’s always something fresh 
with the dairy; for even in the depth o’ winter there’s 
some pleasure in conquering the butter, and making it 
come whether or no. My dear,” added Priscilla, press- 
ing her sister’s hand affectionately as they walked side 
by side, “you’ll never be low when you’ve got a 4 a iry.” 

“Ah, Priscilla,” said Nancy, returning the pressure 
with a grateful glance of her clear eyes, “but it won’t 
make up to Godfrey: a dairy’s not so much to a man. 
And it’s only what he cares for that ever makes me low. 
I’m contented with the blessings we have, if he could be 
contented.” 

“It drives me past patience,” said Priscilla impet- 
uously, “that way o’ the men — always wanting and want- 
ing, and never easy with what they’ve got: they can’t 
sit comfortable in their chairs when they’ve neither ache 
nor pain, but either they must stick a pipe in their 
mouths, to make ’em better than well, or else they must 
be swallowing something strong, though they’re forced 
to make haste before the next meal comes in. But joyful 
be it spoken, our father was never that sort o’ man. And 
if it had pleased God to make you ugly, like me, so as 
the men wouldn’t ha’ run after you, we might have kept 
to our own family, and had nothing to do with folks as 
have got uneasy blood in their veins.” 

“Oh, don’t say so, Priscilla,” said Nancy, repenting 
that she had called forth this outburst; “nobody has 
any occasion to find fault with Godfrey.* It’s natural 
he should be disappointed at not having any children: 


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every man likes to have somebody to work for and lay 
by for, and he always counted so on making a fuss with 
’em when they were little. There’s many another man 
’ud hanker more than he does. He’s the best of hus- 
5 bands.” 

“Oh, I know,” said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, 
“I know the way o’ wives; they set one on to abuse 
their husbands, and then they turn round on one and 
praise ’em as if they wanted to sell ’em. But father ’ll 
10 be waiting for me ; we must turn now.” 

The large gig with the steady old gray was at the 
front door, and Mr. Lammeter was already on the stone 
steps, passing the time in recalling to Godfrey what 
very fine points Speckle had when his master used to 
15 ride him. 

“I always would have a good horse, you know,” said 
the old gentleman, not liking that spirited time to be 
quite effaced from the memory of his j uniors. 

“Mind you bring Nancy to the Warrens before the 
20 week’s out, Mr. Cass,” was Priscilla’s parting injunc- 
tion, as she took the reins, and shook them gently, by 
way of friendly incitement to Speckle. 

“I shall just take a turn to the fields against the 
Stone-pits, Nancy, and look at the draining,” said God- 
25 fre y- 

“You’ll be in again by tea-time, dear? 

“Oh, yes, I shall be back in an hour.” 

It was Godfrey’s custom on a Sunday afternoon to 
do a little contemplative farming in a leisurely walk. 
30 Nancy seldom accompanied him.; for the women of her 
generation — unless, like Priscilla, they took to outdoor 
management— were not given to much walking beyond 
their own house and garden, finding sufficient exercise 


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219 


in domestic duties. So, when Priscilla was not with 
her, she usually sat with Mant’s Bible before her, and 
after following the text with her eyes for a little while, 
she would gradually permit them to wander as her 
thoughts had already insisted on wandering. 

But Nancy’s Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out 
of keeping with the devout and reverential intention 
implied by the book spread open before her. She was 
not theologically instructed enough to discern very 
clearly the relation between the sacred documents of the 
past which she opened without method, and her own 
obscure, simple life; but the spirit of rectitude, and the 
sense of responsibility for the effect of her conduct on 
others, which were strong elements in Nancy’s character, 
had made it a habit with her to scrutinize her past feel- 
ings and actions with self-questioning solicitude. Her 
mind not being courted by a great variety of subjects, 
she filled the vacant moments by living inwardly, again 
and again, through all her remembered experience, 
especially through the fifteen years of her married time, 
in which her life and its significance had been doubled. 
She recalled the small details, the words, tones, and 
looks, in the critical scenes which had opened a new 
epoch for her by giving her a deeper insight into the 
relations and trials of life, or which had called on her 
for some little effort of forbearance, or of painful adhe- 
rance to an imagined or real duty — asking herself con- 
tinually whether she had been in any respect blamable. 
This excessive rumination and self-questioning is per- 
haps a morbid habit inevitable to a mind of much moral 
sensibility when shut out from its due share of outward 
activity and of practical claims on its affections — inevit- 
able to a noble-hearted, childless woman, when her lot 


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is narrow. “I can do so little — have I done it all well?” 
is the- perpetually recurring thought; and there are no 
voices calling her away from that soliloquy, no peremp- 
tory demands to divert energy from vain regret or super- 
5 fluous scruple. 

There was one main thread of painful experience in 
Nancy’s married life, and on it hung certain deeply 
felt scenes, which were the oftenest revived in retro- 
spect. The short dialogue with Priscilla in the garden 
10 had determined the current of retrospect in that fre- 
quent direction this particular Sunday afternoon. The 
first wandering of her thought from the text, which 
she still attempted dutifully to follow with her eyes 
and silent lips, was into an imaginary enlargement of 
15 the defence she had set up for her husband against 
Priscilla’s implied blame. The vindication of the loved 
object is the best balm affection can find for its wounds. 
“A man must have so much on his mind,” is the belief 
by which a wife often supports a cheerful face under 
20 rough answers and unfeeling words. And Nancy’s deep- 
est wounds had all come from the perception that the 
absence of children from their hearth was dwelt on in 
her husband’s mind as a privation to which he could not 
reconcile himself. 

25 Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel 
still more keenly the denial of a blessing to which she 
had looked forward with all the varied expectations 
and preparations, solemn and prettily trivial, which fill 
the mind of a 'loving woman when she expects to be- 
30 come a mother. Was there not a drawer filled with the 
neat work of her hands, all unworn and untouched, just 
as she had arranged it there fourteen years ago — just, 
but for one little dress, which had been made the burial- 


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221 


dress? Eut under this immediate personal trial Nancy 
was so firmly unmurmuring, that years ago she had sud- 
denly renounced the habit of visiting this drawer, lest 
she should in this way be cherishing a longing for what 
was not given. 

Perhaps it was this very severity towards any in- 
dulgence of what she held to be sinful regret in her- 
self that made her shrink from applying her own stand- 
ard to her husband. “It is very different — it is much 
worse for a man to be disappointed in that way : a woman 
can always be satisfied with devoting herself to her hus- 
band, but a man wants something that will make him 
look forward more — and sitting by the fire is so much 
duller to him than to a woman.” And always, when 
Nancy reached this point in her meditations — trying, 
with predetermined sympathy, to see everything as God- 
frey saw it — there came a renewal of self-questioning. 
Had she done everything in her power to lighten God- 
fey’s privation? Had she really been right in the resist- 
ance which had cost her so much pain six years ago, and 
again four years ago — the resistance to her husband’s 
wish that they should adopt a child? Adoption was 
more remote from the ideas and habits of that time 
than of our own; still Nancy had her opinion on it. 
It was as necessary to her mind to have an opinion on 
all topics, not exclusively masculine, that had come 
under her notice, as for her to have a precisely marked 
place for every article of her personal property: and 
her opinions were always principles to be unwaveringly 
acted on. They were firm, not because of their basis, 
but because she held them with a tenacity inseparable 
from her mental action. On all the duties and proprie- 
ties of life, from filial behavior to the arrangements of 


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the evening toilette, pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the 
time she was three and twenty, had her unalterable little 
code, and had formed every one of her habits in strict 
accordance with that code. She carried these decided 
5 judgments within her in the most unobtrusive way: they 
rooted themselves in her mind, and grew there as quietly 
as grass. Years ago, we know, she insisted on dressing 
like Priscilla, because “it was right for sisters to dress 
alike,” and because “she w'ould do what was right if she 
10 wore a gown dyed with cheese-coloring.” That was a 
trivial but typical instance of the mode in which Nancy’s 
life was regulated. 

It was one of those rigid principles, and no petty 
egoistic feeling, which had been the ground of Nancy’s 
15 difficult resistance to her husband’s wish. To adopt a 
child, because children of your own had been denied you, 
was to try and choose your lot in spite of Providence: 
the adopted child, she was convinced, would never turn 
out well, and would be a curse to those who had wilfully 
20 and rebelliously sought what it was clear that, for some 
high reason, they were better without. When you saw 
a thing was not meant to be, said Nancy, it was a boun- 
den duty to leave off so much as wishing* for it. And so 
far, perhaps, the wisest of men could scarcely make more 
25 than a verbal improvement in her principle. But the 
conditions under which she held it apparent that a thing 
was not meant to be, depended on a more peculiar mode 
of thinking. She would have given up making a pur- 
chase at a particular place if, on three successive times, 
30 rain, or some other cause of Heaven’s sending, had 
formed an obstacle; and she would have anticipated a 
broken limb or other heavy misfortune to any one who 
persisted in spite of such indications. 


SILAS MARNER 


223 


“But why should you think the child would turn out 
ill?” said Godfrey, in his remonstrances. “She has 
thriven as well as child can do with the weaver; and he 
adopted her. There isn’t such a pretty little girl any- 
where else in the parish, or one fitter for the station we 
could give her. Where can be the likelihood of her being 
a curse to anybody?” 

“Yes, my dear Godfrey,” said Nancy, who was sit- 
ting with her hands tightly clasped together, and with 
yearning, regretful affection in her eyes. “The child 
may not turn out ill with the weaver. But, then, he 
didn’t go to seek her, as we should be doing. It will 
be wrong; I feel sure it will. Don’t you remember what 
that lady we met at the Royston Baths told us about 
the child her sister adopted? That was the only adopt- 
ing I ever heard of : and the child was transported when 
it was twenty-three. Dear Godfrey, don’t ask me to do 
what I know is wrong: I should never be happy again. 
I know it’s very hard for you — it’s easier for me — but 
it’s the will of Providence.” 

It might seem singular that Nancy — with her religious 
theory pieced together out of narrow social traditions, 
fragments of church doctrine imperfectly understood, 
and girlish reasonings on her small experience — should 
have arrived by herself at a way of thinking so nearly 
akin to that of many devout people, whose beliefs are 
held in the shape of a system quite remote from her 
knowledge — singular, if we did not know that human 
beliefs, like all other natural growths* elude the barriers 
of system. 

Godfrey had from the first specified Eppie, then about 
twelve years old, as a child suitable for them to adopt. 
It had never occurred to him that Silas would rather 


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part with his life than with Eppie. Surely the weaver 
would wish the best to the child he had taken so much 
trouble with, and would be glad that such good fortune 
should happen to her; she would always be very grate- 
5 ful to him, and he would be well provided for to the end 
of his life — provided for as the excellent part he had 
done by the child deserved. Was it not an appropriate 
thing for people in a higher station to take a charge off 
the hands of a man in a lower. It seemed an eminently 
10 appropriate thing to Godfrey, for reasons that were 
known only to himself ; and by a common fallacy, he 
imagined the measure would be easy because he had 
private motives for desiring it. This was rather a 
coarse mode of estimating Silas’s relation to Eppie; 
15 but we must remember that many of the impressions 
which Godfrey was likely to gather concerning the 
laboring people around him would favor the idea that 
deep affections can hardly go along with callous palms 
and scant means; and he had not had the opportunity, 
20 even if he had had the power, of entering intimately 
into all that was exceptional in the weaver’s experience. 
It was only the want of adequate knowledge that could 
have made it possible for Godfrey deliberately to enter- 
tain an unfeeling project: his natural kindness had outr 
25 lived that blighting time of cruel wishes, and Nancy’s 
praise of him as a husband was not founded entirely on 
a wilful illusion. 

“I was right,” she said to herself, when she had re- 
called all their scenes of discussion — “I feel I was right 
30 to say him nay, though it hurt me more than anything; 
but how good Godfrey has been about it! Many men 
would have been very angry with me for standing out 
against their wishes; and they might have thrown out 


SILAS MARNER 


225 


that they’d had ill-luck in marrying me ? but Godfrey has 
never been the man to say an unkind word. It’s only 
what he can’t hide: everything seems so blank to him, 
I know; and the land — what a difference it ’ud make to 
him, when he goes to see after things, if he’d children 
growing up that he was doing it all for! But I won’t 
murmur; and perhaps if he’d married a woman who’d 
have had children she’d have vexed him in other ways.” 

This possibility was Nancy’s chief comfort; and to 
give it greater strength, she labored to make it impos- 
sible that any other wife should have had more perfect 
tenderness. She had been forced to vex him by that 
one denial. Godfrey was not insensible to her loving 
effort, and did Nancy no injustice as to the motives of 
her obstinacy. It was impossible to have lived with her 
fifteen years and not be aware that an unselfish clinging 
to the right and a sincerity clear as the flower-born dew 
were her main characteristics; indeed, Godfrey felt this 
so strongly, that his own more wavering nature, too 
averse to facing difficulty to be unvaryingly simple and 
truthful, was kept in a certain awe of this gentle wife 
who watched his looks with a yearning to obey them. It 
seemed to him impossible that he should ever confess to 
her the truth about Eppie: she would never recover 
from the repulsion the story of his earlier marriage 
would create, told to her now, after that long conceal- 
ment. And the child, too, he thought, must become an 
obj ect of repulsion : the very sight of her would be pain- 
ful. The shock to Nancy’s mingled pride and ignor- 
ance of the world’s evil might even be too much for her 
delicate frame. Since he had married her with that 
secret on his heart he must keep it there to the last. 
Whatever else he did, he could not make an irreparable 
breach between himself and this long-loved wife. 


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Meanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to 
the absence of children from a hearth brightened by 
such a wife? Why did his mind fly uneasily to that 
void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not 
5 thoroughly j oyous to him ? I suppose it is the way 
with all men and women who reach middle age with- 
out the clear perception that life never can be thor- 
oughly joyous: under the vague dulness of the gray 
hours, dissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and finds 
10 it in the privation of an untried good. Dissatisfaction, 
seated musingly on a childless hearth, thinks with envy 
of the father whose return is greeted by young voices — 
seated at the meal where the little heads rise one above 
another like nursery plants, it sees a black care hover- 
15 ing behind every one of them, and thinks the impulses 
by which men abandon freedom, and seek for ties, are 
surely nothing but a brief madness. In Godfrey’s case 
there were further reasons why his thoughts should be 
continually solicited by this one point in his lot : his con- 
20 science, never thoroughly easy about Eppie, now gave 
his childless home the aspect of a retribution; and as 
the time passed on, under Nancy’s refusal to adopt her, 
any retrieval of his error became more and more difficult. 

On this Sunday afternoon it was already four years 
25 since there had been any allusion to the subject between 
them, and Nancy supposed that it was forever buried. 

“I wonder if he’ll mind it less or more as he gets 
older,” she thought; “I’m afraid more. Aged people 
feel the miss of children: what would father do without 
30 Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey will be very lonely — 
not holding together with his brothers much. But I 
won’t be over-anxious, and trying to make things out 
beforehand: I must do my best'for the present.” 


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227 


With that last thought Nancy roused herself from 
her reverie, and turned her eyes again towards the for- 
saken page. It had been forsaken longer than she 
imagined, for she was presently surprised by the ap- 
pearance of the servant with the tea-things. It was 5 
in fact, a little before the usual time for tea; but Jane 
had her reasons. 

“Is your master come into the yard, Jane?” 

“No ’m, he isn’t,” said Jane, with a slight emphasis, 
of which, however, her mistress took no notice. 10 

“I don’t know whether you’ve seem ’em, ’m,” con- 
tinued Jane, after a pause, “but there’s folks making 
haste all one way, afore the front window. I doubt 
something’s happened. There’s niver a man to be seen 
i’ the yard, else I’d send and see. I’ve been up into the 15 
top attic, but there’s no seeing anything for trees. I 
hope nobody’s hurt, that’s all.” 

“Oh, no, I daresay there’s nothing much the matter,” 
said Nancy. “It’s perhaps Mr. Snell’s bull got out 
again, as he did before.” 20 

“I wish he mayn’t gore anybody, then, that’s all,” 
said Jane, not altogether despising a hypothesis which 
covered a few imaginary calamities. 

“That girl is always terrifying me,” thought Nancy; 

“I wish Godfrey would come in.” 25 

She went to the front window and looked as far as 
she could see along the road, with an uneasiness which 
she felt to be childish, for there were now no such 
signs of excitement as Jane had spoken of, and Godfrey 
would not be likely to return by the village road, but 30 
by the fields. She continued to stand, however, looking 
at the placid churchyard with the long shadows of the 
gravestones across the bright green hillocks, and at the 


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glowing autumn colors of the Rectory trees beyond. 
Before such calm external beauty the presence of a 
vague fear is more distinctly felt — like a raven flapping 
its slow wing across the sunny air. Nancy wished more 
5 and more that Godfrey would come in. 

CHAPTER XVIII 

Some one opened the door at the other end of the 
room, and Nancy felt that it was her husband. She 
turned from the window with gladness in her eyes, for 
the wife’s chief dread was stilled. 

10 “Dear, I’m so thankful you’ve come,” she said, going 
towards him. “I began to get” — 

She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down 
his hat with trembling hands, and turned towards her 
with a pale face and a strange unanswering glance, as 
15 if he saw her indeed, but saw her as part of a scene 
invisible to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, 
not daring to speak again; but he left the touch un- 
noticed, and threw himself into his chair. 

Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. 
2 o “Tell her to keep away, w'ill you?” said Godfrey; and 
when the door was closed again he exerted himself to 
speak more distinctly. 

“Sit down Nancy — there,” he said, pointing to a 
chair opposite him. “I came back as soon as I could, 
25 to hinder anybody’s telling you but me. I’ve had a 
great shock — but I care most about the shock it’ll be to 
you.” 

“It isn’t father and Priscilla?” said Nancy, with 
quivering lips, clasping her hands together tightly on 
30 her lap. 


SILAS MARNER 


229 


“No, it’s nobody living/* said Godfrey, unequal to 
the considerate skill with which he would have wished 
to make his revelation. “It’s Dunstan — my brother 
Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago. We’ve 
found him — found his body — his skeleton.” 

The deep dread Godfrey’s look had created in Nancy 
made her feel these words a relief. She sat in compara- 
tive calmness to hear what else he had to tell. He went 
on : — 

“The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly — from the 
draining, I suppose; and there he lies — has lain for six- 
teen years, wedged between two great stones. There’s 
his watch and seals, and there’s my gold-handled hunt- 
ing whip, with my name on: he took it away, without my 
knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the last 
time he was seen.” 

Godfrey paused: it was not so easy to say what 
came next. “Do you think he drowned himself?” said 
Nancy, almost wondering that her husband should be 
so deeply shaken by what had happened all those years 
ago to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had 
been augured. 

“No, he fell in,” said Godfrey, in a low but distinct 
voice, as if he felt some deep meaning in the fact. 
Presently he added: “Dunstan was the man that robbed 
Silas Marner.” 

The blood rushed to Nancy’s face and neck at this 
surprise and shame, for she had been bred up to regard 
even a distinct kinship with crime as a dishonor. 

“O Godfrey!” she said, with compassion in her tone, 
for she had immediately reflected that the dishonor must 
be felt still more keenly by her husband. 


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“There was the money in the pit/' he continued — 
“all the weaver’s money. Everything’s been gathered 
up, and they’re taking the skelton to the Rainbow. But 
I came back to tell you: there was no hindering it; you 
5 must know.” 

He was silent, looking on the ground for two long 
minutes. Nancy would have said some words of com- 
fort under this disgrace, but she refrained, from an in- 
stinctive sense that there was something behind — that 
10 Godfrey had something else to tell her. Presently he 
lifted his eyes to her face, and kept them fixed on her, 
as he said, — 

“Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. 
When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out. 
15 I’ve lived with a secret on my mind, but I’ll keep it 
from you no longer. I wouldn’t have you know it by 
somebody else, and not by me — I wouldn’t have you find 
it out after I’m dead. I’ll tell you now. It’s been ‘I 
will’ and ‘I won’t’ with me all my life — I’ll make sure 
20 of myself now.” 

Nancy’s utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the 
husband and wife met with awe in them, as at a crisis 
which suspended affection: 

“Nancy,” said Godfrey slowly, “when I married you, 
25 I hid something from you — something I ought to have 
told you. That woman Marner found dead in the snow 
— Eppie’s mother — that wretched woman — was my wife: 
Eppie is my child.” 

He paused, dreading the effect of his confession. 
30 But Nancy sat quite still, only that her eyes dropped 
and ceased to meet his. She was pale and quiet as a 
meditative statue, clasping her hands on her lap. 

“You’ll never think the same of me again,” said God- 


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231 


frey, after a little while, with some tremor in his voice. 

She was silent. 

“I oughtn’t to have left the child unowned: I oughtn’t 
to have kept it from you. But I couldn’t bear to give 
you up, Nancy. I was led away into marrying her — I 
suffered for it.” 

Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he al- 
most expected that she would presently get up and say 
she would go to her father’s. How could she have any 
mercy for faults that must seem so black to her, with 
her simple, severe notions? 

But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and 
spoke. There was no indignation in her voice — only 
deep regret. 

“Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years ago, 
we could have done some of our duty by the child. Do 
you think I’d have refused to take her in, if I’d known 
she was yours?” 

At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of 
an error that was not simply futile, but had defeated 
its own end. He had not measured this wife with 
whom h,e had lived so long. But she spoke again, with 
more agitation. 

“And — O Godfrey — if we’d had her from the first, 
if you’d taken to her as you ought, she’d have loved me 
for her mother — and you’d have been happier with me: 
I could better have bore my little baby dying, and our 
life might have been more like what we used to think it 
'ud be.” 

The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak. 

“But you wouldn’t have married me then, Nancy, if 
I’d told you,” said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness of 
his self-reproach, to prove to himself that his conduct 


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had not been utter folly. “You may think you would 
now, but you wouldn’t then. With your pride and your 
father’s, you’d have hated having anything to do with 
me after the talk there’d have been.” 

5 “I can’t say what I should have done about that, 
Godfrey. I should never have married anybody else. 
But I wasn’t worth doing wrong for — nothing is in 
this world. Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand 
— not even our marrying wasn’t, you see.” There was a 
10 faint sad smile on Nancy’s face as she said the last 
words. 

“I’m a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy,” 
said Godfrey, rather tremulously. “Can you forgive 
me ever?” 

15 “The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey; you’ve made 
it up to me — you’ve been good to me for fifteen years. 
It’s another you did the wrong to; and I doubt it can 
never be all made up for.” 

“But we can take Eppie now,” said Godfrey. “I 
20 won’t mind the world knowing at last. I’ll be plain and 
open for the rest o’ my life.” 

“It’ll be different coming to us, now she’s grown up,” 
said Nancy, shaking her head sadly. “But it’s your 
duty to acknowledge her and provide for her; and I’ll 
25 do my part by her, and pray to God Almighty to make 
her love me.” 

“Then we’ll go together to Silas Marner’s this very 
night, as soon as everything’s quiet at the Stone-pits.” 

CHAPTER XIX 

Between eight and nine o’clock that evening Eppie 
30 and Silas were seated alone in the cottage. After the 


SILAS MARNER 


233 


great excitement the weaver haa undergone from the 
events of the afternoon, he had felt a longing for this 
quietude, and had even begged Mrs. Winthrop and 
Aaron, who had naturally lingered behind every one 
else, to leave him alone with his child. The excitement 
had not passed away: it had only reached that stage 
when the keenness of the susceptibility makes external 
stimulus intolerable — when there is no sense of weari- 
ness, but rather an intensity of inward life, under which 
sleep is an impossibility. Any one who has watched 
such moments in other men remembers the brightness 
of the eyes and the strange definiteness that comes over 
coarse features from that transient influence. It is as 
if a new fineness of ear for all spiritual voices had sent 
wonder-working vibrations through the heavy mortal 
frame — as if “beauty born of murmuring sound” had 
passed into the face of the listener. 

Silas’s face showed that sort of transfiguration, as 
he sat in his armchair and looked at Eppie. She had 
drawn her own chair towards his knees, and leaned for- 
ward, holding both his hands, while she looked up at 
him. On the table near them, lit by a candle, lay the 
recovered gold — the old long-loved gold, ranged in 
orderly heaps, as Silas used to range it in the days 
when it was his only joy. He had been telling her how 
he used to count it every night, and how his soul was 
utterly desolate till she was sent to him. 

“At first, I’d a sort o’ feeling come across me now 
and then,” he was saying in a subdued tone, “as if 
you might be changed into the gold again; for some- 
times, turn my head which way I would, I seemed to 
see the gold; and I thought I should be glad if I could 
feel it, and find it was come back. But that didn’t last 


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long. After a bit, I should have thought it was a curse 
come again if it had drove you from me, for I’d got to 
feel the need o’ your looks and your voice and the touch 
o’ your little fingers. You didn’t know then, Eppie, 
5 when you were such a little un — you didn’t know what 
your old father Silas felt for you.” 

“But I know now, father,” said Eppie. “If it hadn’t 
been for you, they’d have taken me to the workhouse, 
and there’d have been nobody to love me.” 

10 “Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If 
you hadn’t been sent to save me, I should ha’ gone to 
the grave in my misery. The money was taken away 
from me in time; and you see it’s been kept — kept till 
it was wanted for you. It’s wonderful — our life is won- 
15 derful.” 

Silas sat in silence a few minutes, looking at the 
money. “It takes no hold of me now,” he said, pon- 
deringly — “the money doesn’t. I wonder if it ever 
could again — I doubt it might if I lost you, Eppie. I 
2 q might come to think I was forsaken again, and lose the 
feeling that God was good to me.” 

At that moment there was a knocking at the door, 
and Eppie was obliged to rise without answering Silas. 
Beautiful she looked, with the tenderness of gathering 
25 tears in her eyes and a slight flush on her cheeks, as 
she stepped to open the door. The flush deepened when 
she saw Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass. She made her 
little rustic curtsy, and held the door wide for them to 
enter. 

30 “We’re disturbing you very late, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Cass, taking Eppie’s hand, and looking in her face with 
an expression of anxious interest and admiration. Nancy 
herself was pale and tremulous. 


SILAS MARNER 


235 


Eppie, after placing chairs for Mr. and Mrs. Cass, 
went to stand against Silas, opposite to them. 

“Well, Marner,” said Godfrey, trying to speak with 
perfect firmness, “it’s a great comfort to me to see you 
with your money again, that you’ve been deprived of so 5 
many years. It was one of my family did you the 
wrong, — the more grief to me, — and 7 feel bound to 
make up to you for it in every way. Whatever I can do 
for you will be nothing but paying a debt, even if I 
looked no further than the robbery. But there are other 10 
things I’m beholden — shall be beholden to you for, 
Marner.” 

Godfrey checked himself. It had been agreed be- 
tween him and his wife that the subject of his father- 
hood should be approached very carefully, and that, 15 
if possible, the disclosure should be reserved for the 
future, so that it might be made to Eppie gradually. 
Nancy had urged this, because she felt strongly the 
painful light in which Eppie must inevitably see the 
relation between her father and mother. ' 20 

Silas, always ill at ease when he was being spoken 
to by “betters,” such as Mr. Cass, — tall, powerful, 
florid man, seen chiefly on horseback — answered with 
some constraint, — 

“Sir, I’ve a deal to thank you for a’ready. As for 25 
the robbery, I count it no loss to me. And, if I did, 
you couldn’t help it: you aren’t answerable for it.” 

“You may look at it in that way, Marner, but I never 
can; and I hope you’ll let me act according to my own 
feeling of what’s just. I know you’re easily contented: 30 
you’ve been a hard-working man all your life.” 

“Yes, sir, yes,” said Marner meditatively. “I should , 
ha’ been bad off without my work: it was what I held 
by when everything else was gone from me.” 


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“Ah/* said Godfrey, applying Marner ’s words simply 
to his bodily w&nts, “it was a good trade for you in 
this country, because there’s been a great deal of linen- 
weaving to be done. But you’re getting rather past such 
5 close work, Marner: it’s time you laid by and had some 
rest. You look a good deal pulled down, though you’re 
not an old man, are you?” 

“Fifty-five, as near I can say, sir,” said Silas. 

“Oh, why, you may live thirty years longer — look at 
10 old Macey! And that money on the table, after all, is 
but little. It won’t go far either way — whether it’s put 
out to interest, or you were to live on it as long as it 
would last: it wouldn’t go far if you’d nobody to keep 
but yourself, and you’ve had two to keep for a good 
15 many years now.” 

“Eh, sir,” said Silas, unaffected by anything Godfrey 
was saying, “I’m in no fear o’ want. We shall do very 
well — Eppie and me ’ull do well enough. There’s few 
working-folks have got so much laid by as that. I don’t 
20 know what it is to gentlefolks, but I look upon it as a 
deal — almost too much. And as for us, it’s little we 
want.” 

“Only the garden, father,” said Eppie, blushing up 
to the ears the moment after. 

25 “You love a garden, do you, my dear?” said Nancy, 
thinking that this turn in the point of view might help 
her husband. “We should agree in that: I give a deal 
of time to the garden.” 

“Ah, there’s plenty of gardening at the Red House,” 
30 said Godfrey, surprised at the difficulty he found in 
. approaching a proposition which had seemed so easy to 
him in the distance. “You’ve done a good part by Ep- 


SILAS MARNER 


237 


pie, Marner, for sixteen years. It ’ud be a great com- 
fort to you to see her well provided for, wouldn’t it? 
She looks blooming and healthy, but not fit for any 
hardships: she doesn’t look like a strapping girl come 
of working parents. You’d like to see her taken care of 
by those who can leave her well off, and make a lady 
of her; she’s more fit for it than for a rough life, such 
as she might come to have in a few years’ time.” 

A slight flush came over Marner’s face, and disap- 
peared, like a passing gleam. Eppie was simply won- 
dering Mr. Cass should talk so about things that seemed 
to have nothing to do with reality; but Silas was hurt 
and uneasy. 

“I don’t take your meaning, sir,” he answered, not 
having words at command to express the mingled feel- 
ings with which he had heard Mr. Cass’s words. 

“Well, my meaning is this, Marner,” said Godfrey, 
determined to come to the point. “Mrs Cass and I, you 
know, have no children — nobody to be the better for our 
good home and everything else we have — more than 
enough for ourselves. And we should like to have some- 
body in the place of a daughter to us — we should like 
to have Eppie, and treat her in every way as our own 
child. It ’ud be a great comfort to you in your old age, 
I hope, to see her fortune made in that way, after you’ve 
been at the trouble of bringing her up so well. And it’s 
right you should have every reward for that. And Ep- 
pie, I’m sure, will always love you and be grateful to 
you: she’d come and see you very often, and we should 
all be on the lookout to do everything we could towards 
making you comfortable.” 

A plain man like Godfrey Cass, speaking under some 
embarrassment, necessarily blunders on words that are 


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coarser than his intentions, and that are likely to fall 
gratingly on susceptible feelings. While he had been 
speaking, Eppie had quietly passed her arm behind 
Silas’s head, and let her hand rest against it caressingly : 
5 she felt him trembling violently. He was silent for some 
moments when Mr. Cass had ended — powerless under 
the conflict of emotions, all alike painful. Eppie’s heart 
was swelling at the sense that her father was in distress ; 
and she was j ust going to lean down and speak to him, 
10 when one struggling dread at last gained the mastery 
over every other in Silas, and he said faintly, — 

“Eppie, my child, speak. I won’t stand in your way. 
Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass.” 

Eppie took her hand from her father’s head, and 
15 came forward a step. Her cheeks were flushed, but 
not with shyness this time: the sense that her father 
was in doubt and suffering banished that sort of self- 
consciousness. She dropped a low curtsy, first to Mrs. 
Cas and then to Mr. Cass, and said, — 

20 “Thank you, ma’am — thank you, sir. But I can’t 
leave my father, nor own anybody nearer than him. 
And I don’t want to be a lady — thank you all the same” 
(here Eppie dropped another curtsy). “I couldn’t give 
up the folks I’ve been used to.” 

25 Eppie’s lip began to tremble a little at the last 
words. She retreated to her father’s chair again, and 
held him round the neck; while Silas, with a subdued 
sob, put up his hand to grasp hers. 

The tears were in Nancy’s eyes, but her sympathy 
30 with Eppie was, naturally, divided with distress on her 
husband’s account. She dared not speak, wondering 
what was going on in her husband’s mind. 

Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all 


SILAS MARKER 


239 


of us when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He 
had been full of his own penitence and resolution to 
retrieve his error as far as the time was left to him; 
he was possessed with all-important feelings, that were 
to lead to a predetermined course of action which he 
had fixed on as the right, and he was not prepared to 
enter with lively appreciation into other people’s feel- 
ings counteracting his virtuous resolves. The agita- 
tion with which he spoke again was not quite unmixed 
with anger. 

“But I’ve a claim on you, Eppie — the strongest of 
all claims. It’s my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my 
child, and provide for her. She’s my own child: her 
mother was my wife. I’ve a natural claim on. her that 
must stand before every other.” 

Eppie had given a violent start, and turned quite 
pale. Silas, on the contrary, who had been relieved, 
by Eppie’s answer, from the dread lest his mind should 
be in opposition to hers, felt the spirit of resistance in 
him set free, not without a touch of parental fierceness. 
“Then, sir,” he answered, with an accent of bitterness 
that had been silent in him since the memorable day 
when his youthful hope had perished — “then, sir, why 
didn’t you say so sixteen years ago, and claim her before 
I’d come to love her, i’stead o’ coming to take her from 
me now, when you might as well take the heart out o’ 
my body? God gave her to me because you turned your 
back upon her, and He looks upon her as mine: you’ve 
no right to her ! When a man turns a blessing from his 
door, it falls to them as take it in.” 

“I know that, Marner. I was wrong. I’ve repented 
of my conduct in that matter,” said Godfrey, who could 
not help feeling the edge of Silas’s words. 


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“I'm glad to hear it, sir/’ said Marner, with gather- 
ing excitement; “but repentance doesn’t alter what’s 
been going on for sixteen year. Your coming now and 
saying ‘I’m her father,’ doesn’t alter the feelings in- 
5 side us. It’s me she’s been calling her father ever since 
she could say the word.” 

“But I think you might look at the thing more reason- 
ably, Marner,” said Godfrey, unexpectedly awed by the 
weaver’s direct truth-speaking. “It isn’t as if she was 
10 to be taken quite away from you, so that you’d never see 
her again. She’ll be very near you, and come to see you 
very often. She’ll feel just the same towards you.” 

“Just the same?” said Marner, more bitterly than 
ever. “How’ll she feel just the same for me as she 
*15 does now, when we eat o’ the same bit, and drink o’ 
the same cup, and think o’ the same things from one 
day’s end to another? Just the same? That’s idle talk. 
You’d cut us i* two.” 

Godfrey, unqualified by experience to discern the 
20 pregnancy of Marner’s simple words, felt rather angry 
again. It seemed to him that the weaver was very 
selfish (a judgment readily passed by those who have 
never tested their own power of sacrifice) to oppose 
what was undoubtedly for Eppie’s welfare; and he felt 
25 himself called upon, for her sake, to assert his authority. 
“I should have thought, Marner,” he said severely, 
— “I should have thought your affection for Eppie 
would make you rejoice in what was for her good, even 
if it did call upon you to give up something. You ought 
30 to remember your own life’s uncertain, and she’s at an 
age now when her lot may soon be fixed in a way very 
different from what it would be in her father’s home: 
she may marry some low working-man, and then, what- 


SILAS MARNER 


241 


ever I might do for her, I couldn’t make her well off. 
You’re putting yourself in the way of her welfare; and 
though I’m sorry to hurt you after what you’ve done, 
and what I’ve left undone, I feel now it’s my duty to 
insist on taking care of my own daughter. I want to do 
my duty.” 

It would be difficult to say whether it were Silas 
or Eppie that was most deeply stirred by this last 
speech of Godfrey’s. Thought had been very busy in 
Eppie as she listened to the contest between her old 
long-loved father and this new unfamiliar father who 
had suddenly come to fill the place of that black fea- 
tureless shadow which had held the ring and placed it 
on her mother’s finger. Pier imagination had darted 
backward in conjectures, and forward in previsions, of 
what this revealed fatherhood implied; and there were 
words in Godfrey’s last speech which helped to make 
the previsions especially definite. Not that these 
thoughts, either of past or future, determined her res- 
olution — that was determined by the feelings which 
vibrated to every word Silas had uttered; but they 
raised, even apart from these feelings, a repulsion to- 
wards the offered lot and the newly-revealed father. 

Silas, on the other hand, was again stricken in con- 
science, and alarmed lest Godfrey’s accusation should 
be true — lest he should be raising his own will as an 
obstacle to Eppie’s good. For many moments he was 
mute, struggling for the self-conquest necessary to the 
uttering of the difficult words. They came out trem- 
ulously. 

“I’ll say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak to 
the child. I’ll hinder nothing.” 

Even Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her own 


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affections, shared her husband’s view, that Marner was 
not j ustifiable in his wish to retain Eppie, after her real 
father had avowed himself. She felt that it was a very 
hard trial for the poor weaver, but her code allowed no 
5 question that a father by blood must have a claim above 
that of any foster-father. Besides, Nancy, used all her 
life to plenteous circumstances and the privileges of 
“respectability,” could not enter into the pleasures which 
early nurture and habit connect with all the little aims 
10 and efforts of the poor who are born poor: to her mind, 
Eppie, in being restored to her birthright, was entering 
on a too long withheld but unquestionable good. Hence 
she heard Silas’s last words with relief, and thought, 
as Godfrey did, that their wish was achieved. 

15 “Eppie, my dear,” said Godfrey, looking at his 
daughter, not without some embarassment, under the 
sense that she was old enough to judge him, “it’ll always 
be our wish that you should show your love and gratitude 
to one who’s been a father to you so many years, and we 
20 shall want to help you to make him comfortable in every 
way. But we hope you’ll come to love us as well; and 
though I haven’t been what a father should ha’ been to 
you all these years, I wish to do the utmost in my power 
for you for the rest of my life, and provide for you as 
25 my only child. And you’ll have the best of mothers in 
my wife — that’ll be a blessing you haven’t known since 
you were old enough to know it.” 

“My dear, you’ll be a treasure to me,” said Nancy, 
in her gentle voice. “We shall want for nothing when 
30 we have our daughter.” 

Eppie did not come forward and curtsy, as she had 
done before. She held Silas’s hand in hers, and grasped 
it firmly — it was a weaver’s hand, with a palm and fin- 


SILAS MARNER 


243 


ger-tips that were sensitive to such pressure — while she 
spoke with colder decision than before. 

“Thank you, ma’am — thank you, sir, for your offers — 
they’re very great, and far above my wish. For I should 
have no delight i’ life any more if I was forced to go 
away from my father, and knew he was sitting at home, 
a-thinking of me and feeling lone. We’ve been used to 
be happy together every day, and I can’t think o’ no 
happiness without him. And he says he’d nobody i’ the 
world till I was sent to him, and he’d have nothing when 
I was gone. And he’s took care of me and loved me from 
the first, and I’ll cleave to him as long as he lives, and 
nobody shall ever come between him and me.” 

“But you must make sure, Eppie,” said Silas, in a 
low voice — “you must make sure as you won’t ever be 
sorry, because you’ve made your choice to stay among 
poor folks, and with poor clothes and things, when you 
might ha’ had everything o’ the best.” 

His sensitiveness on this point had increased as he 
listened to Eppie’s words of faithful affection. 

“I can never be sorry, father, ” e said Eppie. “I 
shouldn’t know what to think on or to wish for with 
fine things about me, as I haven’t been used to. And 
it ’ud be poor work for me to put on things, and ride 
in a gig, and sit in a place at church, as ’ud make them 
as I’m fond of think me unfitting company for ’em. 
What could I care for then?” 

Nancy looked at Godfrey with a pained, questioning 
glance. But his eyes were fixed on the floor, where 
he was moving the end of his stick, as if he were 
pondering on something absently. She thought there 
was a word which might perhaps come better from her 
lips than from his. 


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“What you say is natural, my dear child — it's natural 
you should cling to those who’ve brought you up,” she 
said mildly; “but there’s a duty you owe to your lawful 
father. There’s perhaps something to be given up on 
5 more sides than one. When your father opens his home 
to you, I think it’s right you shouldn’t turn your back 
on it.” 

“I can’t feel as I’ve got any father but one,” said 
Eppie impetuously, while the tears gathered. “I’ve 
10 always thought of a little home where he’d sit i’ the 
corner, and I should fend and do everything for him: 
I can’t think o’ no other home. I wasn’t brought up 
to be a lady, and I can’t turn my mind to it. I like 
the working-folks, and their victuals, and their ways. 
15 And,” she ended passionately, while the tears fell, 
“I’m promised to marry a working-man, as ’ll live with 
father, and help me to take care of him.” 

Godfrey looked up at Nancy with a flushed face and 
smarting, dilated eyes. This frustration of a purpose 
20 towards which he had set out under the exalted con- 
sciousness that he was about to compensate in some de- 
gree for the greatest demerit of his life, made him feel 
the air of the room stifling. 

“Let us go,” he said, in an undertone. 

25 “We won’t talk of this any longer now,” said Nancy, 
. rising. “We’re your well-wishers, my dear — and yours 
too, Marner. We shall come and see you again. It’s 
getting late now.” 

In this way she covered her husband’s abrupt de- 
30 parture, for Godfrey had gone straight to the door, 
unable to say more. 


SILAS MARNER 


245 


CHAPTER XX 

Nancy and Godfrey walked home under the star- 
light in silence. When they entered the oaken parlor, 
Godfrey threw himself into his chair, while Nancy laid 
down her bonnet and shawl, and stood on the hearth 
near her husband, unwilling to leave him even for a 5 
few minutes, and yet fearing to utter any word lest it 
might jar on his feeling. At last Godfrey turned his 
head towards her, and their eyes met, dwelling in that 
meeting without any movement on either side. That 
quiet mutual gaze of a trusting husband and wife is like 10 
the first moment of rest or refuge from a great weariness 
or a great danger — not to be interfered with by speech 
or action which would distract the sensations from the 
fresh enjoyment of repose. 

But presently he put out his hand, and as Nancy 15 
placed hers within it, he drew her towards him, and 
said, — ' 

“That’s ended!” 

She bent to kiss him, and then said, as she stood by 
his side, “Yes, I’m afraid we must give up the hope 20 
of having her for a daughter. It wouldn’t be right to 
want to force her to come to us against her will. We 
can’t alter her bringing up and what’s come of it.” 

“No,” said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of tone, 
in contrast with his usually careless and unemphatic 25 
speech — “there’s debts we can’t pay like money debts, 
by paying extra for the years that have slipped by. 
While I’ve been putting off and putting off, the trees 
have been growing — it’s too late now. Marner was in 
the right in what he said about a man’s turning away 30 
a blessing from his door: it falls to somebody else. I 


246 


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wanted to pass for childless once, Nancy — I shall pass 
for childless now against my wish.” 

Nancy did not speak immediately, but after a little 
while she asked, “You won’t make it known, then, about 
5 Eppie’s being your daughter?” 

“No — where would be the good to anybody? — only 
harm. I must do what I can for her in the state of life 
she chooses. I must see who it is she’s thinking of 
marrying.” 

10 “If it won’t do any good to make the thing known,” 
said Nancy, who thought she might now allow herself 
the relief of entertaining a feeling which she had tried 
to silence before, “I should be very thankful for father 
and Priscilla never to be troubled with knowing what 
15 was done in the past, more than about Dunsey: it can’t 
be helped, their knowing that.” 

“I shall put it in my will — I think I shall put it in 
my will. I shouldn’t like to leave anything to be found 
out, like this about Dunsey,” said Godfrey meditatively. 
20 “But I can’t see anything but difficulties that ’ud come 
from telling it now. I must do what I can to make her 
happy in her own way. I’ve a notion,” he added, after 
a moment’s pause, “it’s Aaron Winthrop she meant she 
was engaged to. I remember seeing him with her and 
25 Marner going away from church.” 

“Well, he’s very sober and industrious,” said Nancy, 
trying to view the matter as cheerfully as possible. 

Godfrey fell into thoughtfulness again. Presently 
he looked up at Nancy sorrowfully, and said, — 

30 “She’s a very pretty, nice girl, isn’t she, Nancy?” 

“Yes, dear; and with just your hair and eyes. I won- 
dered it had never struck me before.” 

“I think she took a dislike to me at the thought of 


SILAS MARNER 


247 


my being her father. I could see a change in her man- 
ner after that.” 

“She couldn’t bear to thing of not looking on Marner 
as her father/’ said Nancy, not wishing to confirm her 
husband’s painful impression. 

“She thinks I did wrong by her mother as well as 
by her. She thinks me worse than I am. But she must 
think it: she can never know all. It’s part of my pun- 
ishment, Nancy, for my daughter to dislike me. I 
should never have got into that trouble if I’d been true 
to you — if I hadn’t been a fool. I’d no right to expect 
anything but evil could come of that marriage — and 
when I shirked doing a father’s part too.” 

Nancy was silent: her spirit of rectitude would not 
let her try to soften the edge of what she felt to be a 
just compunction. He spoke again after a little while, 
but the tone was rather changed : there was tender- 
ness mingled with the previous self-reproach. 

“And I got you, Nancy, in spite of all; and yet 
I’ve been grumbling and uneasy because I hadn’t some- 
thing else — as if I deserved it.” 

“You’ve never been wanting to me, Godfrey,” said 
Nancy, with quiet sincerity. “My only trouble would 
be gone if you resigned yourself to the lot that’s been 
given us.” 

“Well, perhaps it isn’t too late to mend a bit there. 
Though it is too late to mend some things, say what 
they will.” 

CHAPTER XXI 

The next morning, when Silas and Eppie were seated 
at their breakfast, he said to her, — 


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SILAS MARNER 


“Eppie, there’s a thing I’ve had on my mind to do 
this two year, and now the money’s been brought back 
to us, we can do it. I’ve been turning it over and over 
in the night, and I think we’ll set out to-morrow, while 
5 the fine days last. We’ll leave the house and everything 
for your godmother to take care on, and we’ll make a 
little bundle o’ things and set out.” 

“Where to go, daddy?” said Eppie, in much surprise. 

“To my old country — to the town where I was born — 
2 q up Lantern Yard. I want to see Mr. Paston, the minis- 
ter: something may ha’ come out to make ’em know I 
was innicent o’ the robbery. And Mr. Paston was a man 
with a deal o’ light — I want to speak to him about the 
drawing o’ the lots. And I should like to talk to him 
15 about the religion o’ this country-side, for I partly think 
he doesn’t know on it.” 

Eppie was very joyful, for there was the prospect 
not only of wonder and delight at seeing a strange coun- 
try, but also of coming back to tell Aaron all about it. 
20 Aaron was so much wiser than she was about most things 
— it would be rather pleasant to have this little ad- 
vantage over him. Mrs. Winthrop, though possessed 
with a dim fear of dangers attendant on so long a jour- 
ney, and requiring many assurances that it would not 
25 take them out of the region of carriers’ carts and slow 
wagons, was nevertheless well pleased that Silas should 
revisit his own country, and find out if he had been 
cleared from that false accusation. 

“You’d be easier in your mind for the rest o’ your 
30 life, Master Marner,” said Dolly — “that you would. 
And if there’s any light to be got up the Yard as you 
talk on, we’ve need of it i’ this world, and I’d be glad 
on it myself, if you could bring it back.” 


SILAS MARNER 


249 


So, on the fourth day from that time, Silas and Eppie, 
in their Sunday clothes, with a small bundle tied in a 
blue linen handkerchief, were making their way through 
the streets of a great manufacturing town. Silas, be- 
wildered by the changes thirty years had brought over 
his native place, had stopped several persons in succes- 
sion to ask them the name of this town, that he might be 
sure he was not under a mistake about it. 

“Ask for Lantern Yard, father — ask this gentleman 
with the tassels on his shoulders a-standing at the shop 
door; he isn’t in a hurry like the rest,” said Eppie, in 
some distress at her father’s bewilderment, and ill at 
ease, besides, amidst the noise, the movement, and the 
multitude of strange indifferent faces. 

“Eh, my child, he won’t know anything about it,” 
said Silas; “gentlefolks didn’t ever go up the Yard. 
But happen somebody can tell me which is the way to 
Prison Street, where the jail is. I know the way out 
o’ that as if I’d seen it yesterday.” 

With some difficulty, after many turnings and new 
inquiries, they reached Prison Street; and the grim 
walls of the jail, the first object that answered to any 
image in Silas’s memory, cheered him with the certi- 
tude, which no assurance of the town’s name had hither- 
to given him, that he was in his native place. 

“Ah,” he said, drawing a long breath, “there’s the 
Jail, Eppie; that’s just the same: I aren’t afraid now. 
It’s the third turning on the left hand from the jail 
doors — that’s the way we must go.” 

“Oh, what a dark ugly place!” said Eppie. “How 
it hides the sky! It’s worse than the workhouse. I’m 
glad you don’t live in this town now, father. Is Lantern 
Yard like this street?” 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


250 


SILAS MARNER 


“My precious child/’ said Silas, smiling, “it isn’t 
a big street like this. -I never was easy i’ this street 
myself, but I was fond o’ Lantern Yard. The shops 
here are all altered, I think — I can’t make ’em out; 
5 but I shall know the turning, because it’s the third.” 

“Here it is,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction, as 
they came to a narrow alley. “And then we must go to 
the left again, and then straight for’ard for a bit, up 
Shoe Lane ; and then we shall be at the entry next to the 
10 o’erhanging windows, where there’s the nick in the road 
for the water to run. Eh, I can see it all.” 

“O father, I’m like as if I was stifled,” said Eppie. 
“I couldn’t ha’ thought as any folks lived i’ this way, 
so close together. How pretty the Stone-pits ’ull look 
15 when we get back!” 

“It looks comical to me, child, now — and smells bad. 
I can’t think as it usened to smell so.” 

Here and there a sallow, begrimed face looked out 
from a gloomy doorway at the strangers, and increased 
20 Eppie’s uneasiness, so that it was a longed-for relief 
when they issued from the alleys into Shoe Lane, where 
there was a broader strip of sky. 

“Dear heart !” said Silas ; “why, there’s people com- 
ing out o’ the Yard as if they’d been to chapel at this 
25 time o’ day — a weekday noon !” 

Suddenly he started and stood still with a look of 
distressed amazement, that alarmed Eppie. They were 
before an opening in front of a large factory, from which 
men and women were streaming for their midday meal. 
30 “-Lather,” said Eppie, clasping his arm, “what’s the 
matter ?” 

But she had to speak again and again before Silas 
could answer her. 


SILAS MARNER 


251 


“It’s gone, child,” lie said, at last, in strong agita- 
tion — “Lantern Yard’s gone. It must ha’ been here, 
because here’s the house with the o’erhanging window 
— I know that — it’s just the same; but they’ve made 
this new opening; and see that big factory! It’s all 
gone — chapel and all.” 

“Come into that little brush-shop and sit down, father 
— they’ll let you sit down,” said Eppie, always on the 
watch lest one of her father’s strange attacks should 
come on. “Perhaps the people can tell you all about it.” 

But neither from the brush-maker, who had come to 
Shoe Lane only ten years ago, when the factory was 
already built, nor from any other source within his 
reach, could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern 
Yard friends, or of Mr. Paston, the minister. 

“The old place is all swep’ away,” Silas said to Dolly 
Winthrop on the night of his return — “the little grave- 
yard and everything. The old home’s gone; I’ve no 
home but this now. I shall never know whether they got 
at the truth o’ the robbery, nor whether Mr. Paston could 
ha’ given me any light about the drawing o’ the lots. 
It’s dark to me, Mrs. Winthrop, that is; I doubt it’ll be 
dark to the last.” 

“Well, yes, Master Marner,” said Dolly, who sat 
with a placid listening face, now bordered by gray hairs ; 
“I doubt it may. It’s the will o’ Them above as a many 
things should be dark to us; but there’s some things as 
I’ve never felt i’ the dark about, and they’re mostly what 
comes i’ the day*s work. You were hard done by that 
once, Master Marner, and it seems as you’ll never know 
the rights of it; but that doesn't hinder there being a 
rights, Master Marner, for all it’s dark to you and me.” 

“No,” said Silas, “no; that doesn’t hinder. Since the 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


252 


SILAS MARNER 


time the child was sent to me and I’ve come to love her 
as myself, I’ve had light enough to trusten by; and, now 
she says she’ll never leave me, I think I shall trusten 
till I die.” 

CONCLUSION 

5 There was one time of the year which was held in 
Raveloe to be especially suitable for a wedding. It 
was when the great lilacs and laburnums in the old- 
fashioned gardens showed their golden and purple 
wealth above the lichen-tinted walls, and when there 
10 were calves still young enough to want bucketfuls of 
fragrant milk. People were not so busy then as they 
must become when the full cheese-making and the mow- 
ing had set in; and, besides, it was a time when a light 
bridal dress could be worn with comfort and seen to 
15 advantage. 

Happily the sunshine fell more warmly than usual 
on the lilac tufts the morning that Eppie was married, 
for her dress was a very light one. She had often 
thought, though with a feeling of renunciation, that 
20 the perfection of a wedding-dress would be a white cot- 
ton, with the tiniest pink sprig at wide intervals; so 
that when Mrs. Godfrey Cass begged to provide one, 
and asked Eppie to choose what it should be, previous 
meditation had enabled her to give a decided answer 
25 at once. 

Seen at a little distance as she walked across the 
churchyard and down the village, she seemed to be at- 
tired in pure white, and her hair looked like the dash of 
gold on a lily. One hand was on her husband’s arm, 
30 and with the other she clasped the hand of her father 
Silas. 


SILAS MARNER 


253 


“You won’t be giving me away, father,” she had 
said before they went to church; “you’ll only be taking 
Aaron to be a son to you.” 

Dolly Winthrop walked behind with her husband; 
and there ended the little bridal procession. 

There were many eyes to look at it, and Miss Pris- 
cilla Lammeter was glad that she and her father had 
happened to drive up to the door of the Red House 
just in time to see this pretty sight. They had come 
to keep Nancy company to-day, because Mr. Cass had 
had to go away to Lytherly, for special reasons. That 
seemed to be a pity, for otherwise he might have gone, 
as Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Osgood certainly would, 
to look on at the wedding-feast which he had ordered 
at the Rainbow, naturally feeling a great interest in 
the weaver who had been wronged by one of his own 
family. 

“I could ha’ wished Nancy had had the luck to find 
a child like that and bring her up,” said Priscilla to 
her father, as they sat in the gig; “I should ha’ had 
something young to think of then, besides the lambs 
and the calves.” 

“Yes, my dear, yes,” said Mr. Lammeter; “one feels 
that as one gets older. Things look dim to old folks: 
they’d need have some young eyes about ’em, to let 
’em know the world’s the same as it used to be.” 

Nancy came out now to welcome her father and 
sister ; and the wedding-group had passed on beyond the 
Red House to the humbler part of the village. 

Dolly Winthrop was the first to divine that old Mr. 
Macev, who had been set in his armchair outside his 
own door, would expect some special notice as they 
passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding-feast. 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 


254 


SILAS MARNER 


“Mr. Macey’s looking for a word from us/’ said Dolly; 
“he’ll be hurt if we pass him and say nothing — and him 
so racked with rhematiz.” 

So they turned aside to shake hands with the old 
5 man. He had looked forward to the occasion, and had 
his premeditated speech. 

“Well, Master Marner,” he said, in a voice that quav- 
ered a good deal, “I’ve lived to see my words come true. 
I was the first to say there was no harm in you, though 
10 your looks might be again’ you; and I was the first to 
say you’d get your money back. And it’s nothing but 
rightful as you should. And I’d ha’ said the ‘Amens,’ 
and willing, at the holy matrimony; but Tookey’s done 
it a good while now, and I hope you’ll have none the 
15 worse luck.” 

In the open yard before the Rainbow the party of 
guests were already assembled, though it was still nearly 
an hour before the appointed feast-time. But by this 
means they could not only enjoy the slow advent of 
20 their pleasure; they had also ample leisure to talk of 
Silas Marner’s strange history, and arrive by due de- 
grees at the conclusion that he had brought a blessing 
on himself by acting like a father to a lone, motherless 
child. Even the farrier did not negative this sentiment: 
25 on the contrary, he took it up as peculiarly his own, and 
invited any hardy person present to contradict him. 
But he met with no contradiction ; and all differences 
among the company were merged in a general agreement 
with Mr. Snell’s sentiment, that when a man had de- 
30 served his good luck, it was the part of his neighbors 
to wish him joy. 

As the bridal group approached, a hearty cheer was 
raised in the Rainbow yard; and Ben Winthrop, whose 


SILAS MARNER 


255 


j okes had retained their acceptable flavor, found it agree- 
able to turn in there and receive congratulations ; not re- 
quiring the proposed interval of quiet at the Stone-pits 
before joining the company. 

Eppie had a larger garden than she had ever expected 5 
there now ; and in other ways there had been alterations 
at the expense of Mr. Cass, the landlord, to suit Silas’s 
larger family. For he and Eppie had declared that they 
would rather stay at the Stone-pits than go to any new 
home. The garden was fenced with stones on two sides, iq 
but in front there was an open fence, through which the 
flowers shone with answering gladness, as the four united 
people came within sight of them. 

“O father,” said Eppie, “what a pretty home ours 
is ! I think nobody could be happier than we are.” 


15 





































♦ 


















* 


































































EXPLANATORY NOTES 


P. 21, 1. 1. Spinning wheels. — Before the nineteenth century 
yarn was spun on spinning wheels worked by hand-power. Spin- 
ning wheels may even now be found in the attics of very old farm- 
houses. 

P. 22, 1. 22. “Linen Weavers .... emigrants from town 
to country.” — Through the introduction of machinery in cotton- 
goods-making in the latter years of the nineteenth century, which 
is known as the Industrial Revolution, linen-making received a 
severe blow. Many towns of linen-weavers ceased to exist , and the 
weavers were driven to the rural districts, where they still found 
a market for their wares. These indoor workers differed signally 
in appearance and habits from the hale farmers among whom they 
lived. 

P. 22, 1. 29. Nutty hedgerows^ — The yards and fields in England 
are usually separated from each other by hazel-nut or hawthorn 
hedges instead of fences; breaks, or gaps in the hedges, serve as 
gates. 

P.22, 1. 30. Raveloe. — Though the name is fictitious, Raveloe 
is a typical village of midland England in the early years of the 
nineteenth century. George Eliot spent her childhood near just 
such a village as she has described in “Silas Marner.” 

P.23, 1. 17. Dreadful stare. — There was a wide-spread super- 
stition that certain people were possessed of the “evil eye,” 
which had the power of injuring others simply by looking at 
them. This belief may have had its origin in hypnotism. 

P. 23, 1. 24. Old demon- worship. — The worship, or propitiation 
of the powers of evil, to keep them from harming the worshipper. 
This is a common form of religion among ignorant or primitive 
peoples. 

P. 24, 1. 19. Desirable tithes. — The Church of England was large- 
ly maintained by a form of taxation called tithes, levied on the 
crops in rural regions. 

( 257 ) 


258 


SILAS MARNER 


P. 24, 1. 22. Coach-horn. — Before the building of railroads, in the 
middle of the nineteenth century, travel in England, as elsewhere, 
was largely carried on in stage-coaches. 

P.24,1.32. Manor-house. — Manor is the term applied to a great 
landed estate handed down by inheritance from son to son. The 
manor-house is the dwelling of the proprietor. The author means 
to say that there were no great landed proprietors near Raveloe. 

P. 25, 1. 2. War times. — The reference is to the French Revolu- 
tionary and Napoleonic wars. England went to war with France 
in 1793, and the two countries, with one or two very brief intervals 
of peace, continued at war until 1815. Owing to the needs of the 
armies and the difficulty of importing foodstuffs in war-time, the 
price of grain soared to apoint it had never reached before, making 
farming immensely profitable. 

P. 25,1.3. Christmas, Whitsun and Eastertide. — Religious festi- 
vals observed in England as general holiday occasions with great 
feasting and revelry. 

P. 25, 1. 14. The Rainbow. — The village inn. See Chap. VI. 

P. 25, 1. 24. Mole-catcher. — The hunting of moles was a kind of 
tradei or calling in England at one time. 

P. 26, 1. 7. Clerk of the parish. — The service of the Church of 
England, like the Episcopal service in this country, consists largely 
of responses to the minister, read by the congregation from the 
Prayer Book. As most of the villagers in former times could not 
read, they had to have one of their educated members, the parish 
clerk, read these responses for them and announce the psalms. It 
was a position of great prestige, and highly coveted. 

P. 27, 1. 10. Tale. — Here used in the sense of amount, or count. 

P. 27, 1. 31. Narrow religious sect. — During the Puritan ascen- 
dancy in England and the period following, many religious sects 
broke away from the Church of England. These sects were 
grouped together under the name of “dissenters,” that is those 
who dissent in belief from the established church. 

P. 28, 1. 4. Lantern Yard. — A small community of dissenters 
living together in a section of one of the manufacturing cities of 
the North. Note to what an extent Silas’s life is regulated by 
the habits of the sect to which he belonged. 


EXPLANATORY NOTES 


259 


P. 30, 1. 11. Cataleptic fit. — Catalepsy is a mysterious disease 
once popular with story-writers. Victims of catalepsy become un- 
conscious for brief periods or for days, sometimes appearing to be 
dead. Nowadays catalepsy is looked on as one of the many forms 
of hysteria or nervous derangement rather than as a distinct dis- 
ease. Compare the use that Poe makes of this malady in “The 
House of Usher.” 

P. 33, 1. 22. Praying and drawing lots. — This is a survival of the 
idea on which the legal system of the Middle Ages largely rested. 
In the Middle Ages, legal decisions were made by means of “ or- 
deals, ” which were direct appeals to the justice of God. In the 
ordeal of combat, for instance, God was supposed to give the vic- 
tory to the fighter who represented the right side. At Lantern 
Yard, in the nineteenth century, God was supposed to show the 
truth by some kind of gambling arrangement known as “drawing 
lots.” The lots declared Silas Marner guilty when he happened 
to be innocent. The effect of the drawing was to make Marner 
believe that there was no God, at least no just God. Note that this 
lack of faith in man and God is the real beginning of the story, and 
study carefully the means by which his faith is re-established. 

P. 35, 1. 29. Lethean influence of exile. — The Lethe was a famous 
river of Hades; one dipped in its waters lost all memory of his 
former life. 

P.36, 1. 13. Altar-place of high dispensations. — All the rules of his 
life had been regulated by the Church, and he accepted them un- 
questioningly as having divine origin. 

P. 36, 1. 19. Amulet. — A small object, usually a stone or scrap of 
metal, worn as a charm against sickness, evil spirits and the un- 
lucky chances of life. Mystic characters were sometimes cut in 
the amulet, “phrases at one occult and familiar.” 

P.36,1.22. Couplets of the Hymn. — Asthe congregation did not 
have hymn-books, the minister would read out two lines of a 
hymn at a time, and the congregation would sing the couplet 
immediately afterwards. This is sometimes done in country 
churches to-day. 

P. 40, 1.8. Wise Woman at Tarley. — Women who sold charms and 
simple medicines were sometimes found in English villages in old 


260 


SILAS MARNER 


times, and were usually called wise women, or often witches. 

P. 42, 1. 30. The days of King Alfred. — There was an old saying 
that in King Alfred’s time England was so well governed that a 
purse of gold lying in the highway was safe from thieves. 

P. 44, 1. 15. Brownish web. — All linen has to be bleached after 
weaving. It is dark brown at first. 

P.46,1.4. A tenant or two who complained of the game to him. — 
The game laws of England have always been most strict, the ten- 
ants on the land not even being allowed to protect their crops from 
hares and other pests. 

P. 46, 1. 20. Currents of industrial energy and Puritan earnest- 
ness. — The growing manufacturing cities in the north of England 
where the dissenting sects, grouped here under the term Puritans, 
largely controlled the religious life of the community, as at Lan- 
tern Yard. 

P.46, 1.26. Orts. — Scraps of food; fragments. 

P. 47, 1. 3. Pillions. — Cushions or pads fastened to the back of 
saddles for women to ride on. The man rode in front on the sad- 
dle, while the woman sat behind on the pillion, holding on to the 
man. 

P. 48, 1. 11. King George. — George III. 

P. 49, 1. 9. Foxes’ brushes.— Fox-tails. Fox-hunting used to be 
the main sport of England. 

P. 50, 1.4. Distrain. — To seize a person’s effects in payment of 
debt. Cass’s tenant had not, as he thought, paid his rent, and the 
squire was about to take steps to seize his furniture and other prop- 
erty. 

P.53,1.32. “ ’Listing for a soldier.” — In this period, when young 
men had no means of support and did not wish to labor for a live- 
lihood, they entered the army as enlisted men. Godfrey, having 
no profession and no business knowledge, saw nothing to do in case 
of disinheritance but to become a private soldier. 

P. 54, 1. 3. With the sword hanging over him. — The mythical 
sword of Damocles, which hung suspended by a hair over the head 
of a feaster, ready to fall at the slightest disturbance. 

P. 55, 1. 32. Crooked sixpence. — A crooked sixpence was supposed 
to bring good luck. 


EXPLANATORY NOTES 


261 


P. 60, 1. 16. Cover. — The starting point of the hunt. Those who 
could afford it rode a hack to this point, having a groom to lead 
the hunter, so that he might be fresh for the chase. 

P. 62, 1. 33. Pocket-pistol. — A small pocket flask with a tightly- 
fitted stopper. 

P. 67, 1 . 20. Jack. — A machine for turning a spit in roasting meat ; 
it was either wound up like a clock, or moved by the draught of 
heated air up the chimney. 

P. 69, 1. 26. Horn lantern. — Before glass came into common use, 
country people made the sides of their lanterns out of horn scraped 
thin enough to transmit light. 

P. 74, 1. 25. Poacher. — One who hunts game where it is illegal 
for him to hunt. 

P.75,1.29. High- screened seats. — Benches with high backs and 
sides. 

P. 76, 1. 12. Smock-frock. — A smock, or blouse, resembling a 
shirt and worn over the other clothes by farm laborers in England. 

P. 77, 1. 20. Drenching. — Giving a draught of medicine. 

P. 79, 1. 9. Bassoon and key-bugle. — A bassoon is a wooden reed 
instrument, with a pipe about eight feet long. A key-bugle is a 
curved horn having six stops. 

P. 84, 1. 15. Regester. — The parish register. The test of the 
validity of a marriage in England is largely a matter of its being 
properly recorded in the parish register. 

P. 85, 1. 28. Afore the Queen’s heads went out on the shillings. — 
Several issues of shillings minted during the reign of Queen Anne 
bore her likeness. As she ceased to reign in 1714, the firm of Macey , 
Tailor, must have been just about one hundred years old. 

P. 92, 1. 23. Mushed. — Distressed; upset. 

P. 95, 1. 6. Nolo episcopari. — “I do not wish to be a bishop.” 
Bishops were supposed to be elected under protest. The term as 
used here means to object to assuming an office which is really 
desired. 

P. 97, 1. 2. Tinder-box. — See if some member of the class can’t 
find an old tinder-box and flint. Does this help to set the time of 
the story? 

P. 99, 1.1. Clairvoyante. — A mind reader. 


262 


SILAS MARNER 


P. 100, 1.30. ’Sizes. — A corruption of assizes, the name for the 
session of the English county court. 

P. 108, 1. 24. Unstring. — Untie the purse-strings. 

P. 108, 1. 28. Newspaper’s talking about peace. — This allusion 
would point to the time of the story as about 1813 or 1814, in which 
latter year Napoleon was overthrown. 

P. 108, 1.30. Prices ’ud run down like a jack. — The jack ran by 
clock-work, which would run down if not rewound. 

P. 110, 1. 15. Entail. — A legal arrangement by which the posses- 
sor of land is kept from leaving it by will — entailed land descends 
regularly from eldest son to eldest son. But Squire Cass’s land, 
not being entailed, might be left to another son than the eldest. 

P.116,1.2. Commission of the Peace. — The board of justices or 
magistrates who try for small offenses. 

P.117,1.6. Mural monument. — A monument set into the wall 
of a church. 

P. 117, 1. 20. Wall-eyed. — Having an almost colorless iris, or an 
unusually large white. Wall-eyed people have the appearance of 
being almost sightless. 

P. 119, 1. 12. Worse company. — A hint that Marner consorted 
with evil spirits. 

P.120,1.5. Pettitoes. — Pigs’ feet. 

P.121,1.2. They took the water just as well. — In the christening 
service, or infant baptism, of the Church of England. 

P. 121, 1. 7. The cussing of a Ash Wednesday. — In the Ash Wed- 
nesday service of the Church of England, curses are pronounced 
against various classes of sinners. 

P. 126, 1.8. I. H. S. — An early Christian symbol, still used on 
altar cloths, etc., in the Church of England, and the Episcopal 
Church. It stands for “Iesus Hominum Salvator,” Jesus, the 
Saviour of Men; or is sometimes used for “In hoc signo,” — the sign 
of the cross. 

P. 127, 1. 16. Bakehus. — Most villages possessed a bake-house 
which could be used in common, each person paying a small sum 
for his baking. 

P. 127,1.28. Them as knows better nor we do. — A vague reference 
to higher powers — God. 


EXPLANATORY NOTES 


263 


P. 128, 1. 15. Chapel. — The churches of dissenting sects were usu- 
ally called chapels. 

P. 130, 1. 29. Erol. — Herald. Note the dropping of the “h”, 
common among the lower classes of England. 

P. 131 , 1 . 20. Fend for. — To take care of. 

P. 132, 1. 32. Athanasian Creed. — A detailed declaration of belief 
used on special occasions by the Church of England, and the Epis- 
copal church, instead of the Apostles’ Creed, used on ordinary oc- 
casions. 

P. 137, 1. 32. Tightest skirts and shortest waists. — This style 
is generally known as “Empire,” because it was brought from 
France when Napoleon was emperor. 

P. 143, 1. 17. Mawkin. — A scarecrow. 

P. 147, 1. 23. The old king fell ill. — This refers to George Ill’s last 
attack of insanity in 1810, and so the period of the story is defi- 
nitely set between that date and 1815. 

P. 147,1. 27. Pig-tail. — Wigs with long tails, called pig-tails, were 
worn in the eighteenth century and were discarded about the be- 
ginning of the nineteenth. 

P.148,1. 19. Breed was stronger than pasture. — He meant that the 
thrifty habits he inherited were stronger than the careless self- 
indulgence of the Raveloe population; or, in other words, that he- 
redity was stronger than environment. 

P. 148, 1. 24. Country apothecaries. — In England apothecaries, 
or druggists, practise medicine, as well as the regular doctors of 
medicine. 

P. 152, 1.30. Sir Roger de Coverley. — An old-fashioned English 
country dance, from which Addison named his famous type of En- 
glish squire. 

P. 154, 1. 17. Tithe in kind. — The church tax, paid in kind, that 
is, in farm produce. 

P. 154, 1. 32. Springe. — A provincial expression for active or 
quick, as also sodger for soldier. 

P. 156, 1. 4. Presto. — A musical term, meaning lively, quick. 

P. 180, 1. 9. Happen.— A provincial contraction for “it may 
happen,” equivalent to our “perhaps.” 

P. 180, 1. 9. Moithered. — Perplexed or bothered. 


264 


SILAS MARNER 


P. 182, 1. 3. Ringing the pigs. — Putting rings through their 
snouts to keep them from rooting. 

P. 183, 1. 1. ’Noculation. — Vaccination for small-pox. 

P. 187, 1. 20. Colly. — To dirty with coal. 

P. 188, 1. 8 . Truckle-bed. — The same as trundle bed. 

P. 193, 1.29. In old days there were angels. — Genesis XIX, 1-17. 

P. 194, 1. 20. That fkmous ring. — The reference is to a noted fairy 
tale, “Prince Charming, ,, in which a fairy gives a prince a ring 
which pinches his finger every time he does a bad deed. 

P. 196,1. 2. Rate payer. — Local taxes are called rates in England. 
The chief of them is the poor rate, which supports paupers. 

P. 202, 1.29. The gods of the hearth exist for us still. — Each Roman 
family had its own household gods, called Lares and Penates. The 
hearth here is taken as a symbol of the home. 

P. 207, 1. 26. Trusten. — An old form of trust. 

P. 216, f. 20. Turned Michaelmas. — That is after Michaelmas, 
the feast of St. Michael, September 29th. 

P. 219, 1. 2. Mant’s Bible. — An annotated edition of the Bible, 
very popular in the early part of the nineteenth century. 

P. 223, 1. 16. Transported. — Instead of being confined in a peni- 
tentiary, English criminals were formerly sent out to some station 
in the colonies. 

P. 227, 1. 5. Tea-things. — It is customary for most well-to-do 
English families to have tea and muffins served at five o’clock in 
the afternoon. 


SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 


* Chapter I. 

With what picture does the novel open? 

Where was Raveloe? Contrast it with some American village 
that you know. 

What was it that made the villagers afraid of Silas Marner? 
How many village characters are mentioned in this chapter and 
what are their occupations? 

How long had Silas Marner lived there? What did the people 
really believe about him? Was theiF opinion fair to Silas? 

Why does the author wait until the close of the chapter to tell 
of the early life of Marner? What is the real beginning of the 
novel? 

What are some of Marner’s good traits brought out in this chap- 
ter? 

Chapter II. 

Contrast Silas Marner’s life at Raveloe with his former life at 
Lantern Yard. 

What is meant by the figure, “Frustrated belief was a curtain 
broad enough to create for him the blackness of night”? 

Is the simile of the spider a good one to apply to Marner? 

What good traits are brought out by the doctoring of Sally 
Oates and the incident of the jug? 

What good trait is shown by Silas’s refusing to cure others? 
How was this trait shown in early life at Lantern Yard? 

How did Silas hoard his money and why did he not fear rob- 
bery? What criticism would you make of his method of hiding his 
treasure? 

Chapter III. 

Contrast the characters of the two brothers. 

What influence did Godfrey’s home life and lack of training have 
on his character? 


( 265 ) 


266 


SILAS MARNER 


How is Silas alluded to in this chapter, and thus far what is the 
only connection between Godfrey and him? Note carefully how 
other connections, arising from Godfrey’s own life, develop as the 
story progresses. 

Explain the quotation, “The yoke a man creates for himself by 
wrong-doing will breed hate in the kindliest nature.” 

Why is the dog introduced in this chapter? 

Note carefully the analysis of Godfrey’s character given on page 
53, and as the story progresses see whether he measures up to it. 
Is Godfrey an uncommon type? 

Make a parallel list of Godfrey’s good and bad traits. What is 
his greatest weakness? 

Chapter IV. 

In this chapter a new connection is established between Silas 
and Godfrey. Trace carefully its cause. Who was its agent? 

Why did Dunsey go on with the hunt after having sold Wildfire? 

In what two ways was having Godfrey’s whip of advantage to 
him? 

Did he intend to steal the money when he went into the cottage? 
Trace the steps that led to his taking it. Was his idea that Silas 
might have slipped into the old stone pit a probable one? 

From hints the author gives us can you guess what became of 
Dunsey when he left Silas’s house? 

Chapter V. 

Why had Silas left his door unlocked? Does the author give a 
plausible reason for his leaving home in such a mist and rain? 

What is meant by, “Joy is the best of wine”? 

What use does the author make of Silas’s near-sightedness in 
this chapter? Has she mentioned it before? 

Why did Silas suspect Jem Rodney of the theft? 

Chapters VI and VII. 

Make a list of all the characters assembled at the Rainbow Inn. 
Give the occupation and most striking features of each of them. 


SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 


267 


From the stories told what information do we get of the Lam- 
meters? 

What do we learn of Godfrey Cass? 

Why did the author introduce the discussion about ghosts? Note 
how each party to the discussion bears himself towards the sup- 
posed ghost when it appears. 

What was Jem Rodney’s alibi? Was it this alibi, or something 
lovable in Silas’s nature that made him withdraw his charge 
against Jem? 

Though he does not recognize the fact, the robbery has already 
benefited Silas in two ways. Can you discover them in Chapter 
VII? 

Give several sayings from these chapters which illustrate George 
Eliot’s dry humor? 

Do you think that these two chapters are intended to develop 
the setting or the plot? (See Introduction.) 

Chapter VIII. 

Why could not any trace of the robbery be found? What three 
theories were held concerning the robbery and who was the sup- 
porter of each? 

Analyze Godfrey’s position, showing all the dangers that threat- 
ened him. What one possibility of escape was open to him and why 
did he not grasp it? 

Why was he afraid to go to his father and how did he finally plan 
to conduct the interview? 

Was it in keeping with his character for him to change his plans 
in the morning? 

Are the Marner and Cass stories drawn any closer together in 
this chapter? 

Chapter IX. 

What is meant by “the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth 
of such homes as the Red House”? 

What keeps us from entirely losing sympathy with Godfrey? 

Why doesn’t he tell the truth when his father so nearly guesses 
it? 


268 


SILAS MARNER 


What did Godfrey really think about his father’s kindness to 
him? What did his nature really need that the Squire had never 
given him? 

Why had Godfrey become a worshipper of the God, “Favor- 
able Chance”? 

What is meant by “The evil principle deprecated in that re- 
ligion is the orderly sequence by which the seed brings forth a crop 
after its kind”? 

Chapter X. 

Why did neither the villagers nor his own family connect Dun- 
sey’s disappearance with the robbery? 

Describe the condition of Silas in the week following the robbery. 

What change took place in the villagers’ attitude towards him 
and how was it shown? 

Compare the visits of Mr . Macey and Dolly Winthrop . Why did 
Silas receive more benefit from the latter? 

In what ways did Silas show his good will towards Dolly and in 
what ways did he shock her? 

How did Silas spend his Christmas? 

Chapter XI. 

Why didn’t Nancy want Godfrey to help her down from her 
horse? 

Make a list of the guests at Red House. 

Give your opinion of Priscilla’s frankness. What did she mean 
by “sitting on an addled egg forever”? 

Why did Nancy insist on the two sisters dressing alike? What 
light does it throw on her character? 

What is meant by “the emphatic compliment of the Squire’s to 
Nancy was felt to have a diplomatic significance”? 

What did Nancy really, think of Godfrey Cass? 

Chapter XII. 

How did the child get into Marner’s cottage without beingf seen? 

Why did Silas mistake it for his lost gold returned? 


SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 


269 


When he found out that it was a child, what old memories were 
aroused? How did he finally account for the child’s appearance? 

Chapter XIII 

What was Godfrey’s first feeling when he heard that the woman 
might be dead? See “the yoke a man creates for himself,” etc. 

Are we prepared for Silas’s decision to keep the child? Is this 
the “sign of the bud” following the many “circulations of the sap”? 

In this chapter Silas and Godfrey each makes a decision which 
affects his whole after life. Show that both decisions are in keep- 
ing with the characters of the men making them. These two de- 
cisions mark the climax of the plots. 

At the close of the chapter how many dangers which threatened 
Godfrey have been removed? Does he seem to escape too easily? 

Where is there a hint that he may not escape in the end? 

I Chapter XIV 

What effect did Silas’s adoption of Eppie have on the neighbors? 

How did Silas explain Eppie’s coming? 

Tell all the ways in which Silas was benefited by having Eppie. 

Why is it that Silas, who was once a great church-goer, knew 
nothing about christening? 

Tell about Eppie’s punishments and their result. 

Read the last paragraph in the chapter carefully. What Bible 
story is referred to in it? How is the theme of the main plot stated 
in this paragraph? 

Chapter XV 

Why is this chapter necessary? 

What were Godfrey’s feelings in regard to his deliverance? 

Chapter XVI 

Why does the author, after detailing the events of about six 
weeks, suddenly skip a period of sixteen years? 


270 


SILAS MARNER 


What changes have taken place in the Cass and Lammeter fam- 
ilies in the interval? 

What changes do you note in Silas Marner? In his cottage? 
How do you account for them? 

How did Dolly Winthrop finally explain the verdict of the lots 
to Silas? 

How do you account for the evidences of refinement in Eppie? 

What were Eppie’s feelings towards her dead mother? Towards 
a possible father? In some respects the close of this chapter might 
seem a suitable end to the story. Why would you not be willing 
to have it close here? What things remain untold that you would 
like to know? 

Chapter XVII 

Compare the parlor at Red House and the same room as we saw 
it in Chapter III. 

How has Godfrey Cass turned out as a husband — in his wife’s 
opinion? In his sister-in law’s? 

Analyze Nancy’s character and see whether you think she is 
true. 

What evidence do we have that the famous ring alluded to in 
Chapter XV has been pricking Godfrey? Why is his punishment 
a suitable one? 

How does Godfrey’s dairy project connect this chapter with 
the preceding one? 

Chapter XVIII 

How does Godfrey describe himself in his story? 

Do you think that Godfrey’s confession indicates growth in his 
character? 

What did he expect Nancy to do, and how did she surprise him? 

Why do you think the author paid so much attention to the whip 
that Dunsey carried when he left home? 

Chapter XIX 

What effect did the return of the gold have on Silas? 

What did he mean by “our life is wonderful”? 


SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 


271 


Why did Godfrey find it difficult to make his proposal clear to 
Silas and on what motive did he first base his plea? 

Why was he forced to reveal the fact that he was Eppie’s father? 

Why did he have to go back to his first weapon, “Eppie’s wel- 
fare”? 

How is Silas’s character development brought out in each reply 
that he makes to Godfrey’s pleas? Why was it necessary for him 
to be so severely tested twice? 

Note that it was once in Godfrey’s power to decide his own 
happiness. Now it is in Eppie’s. Why? 

Compare the decisions made in this chapter with those made 
in Chapter XIII. 

What was it in Eppie’s declaration which finally settled the mat- 
ter? 

Do you now see a special reason for the account in an earlier 
chapter of Eppie’s engagement to Aaron? 

Do you think Eppie decided wisely? 

In the long run, whose life has been happier and more satisfac- 
tory — the rich Godfrey’s or the poor and obscure Silas’s? 


Chapter XX 

Prove by Godfrey’s own words that he has accepted Eppie’s de- 
cision as final. 

What conclusion was reached as to making Eppie’s relation to 
Godfrey known? Why? 

What do you think now of the justice of Godfrey’s delayed pun- 
ishment? 

Chapter XXI 

Why did Eppie wish to make the journey to Lantern Yard? 

What was Dolly’s advice? 

What was Dolly’s verdict on the matter after Silas’s return to 
Raveloe? 

What is the trait in Silas’s character, so strong in his early life, 
which comes out strongest at the last? 


272 


SILAS MARNER 


Conclusion 

Why does this chapter make a fitting conclusion to both the 
main plot and the under plot? 

How is the setting of the story strengthened by having Mr. 
Macey brought in again in this chapter? 


THEME SUBJECTS 


The Village of Raveloe. 

Village Superstitions. 

The Village Inn. 

Patrons of the Rainbow. 

Churches and Chapels. 

The Effect of the Napoleonic Wars on English Country Life. 
Christmas in Merry England. 

George Eliot’s Humor. 

Early Nineteenth Century Fashions. 

An English Squire. 

Dolly Winthrop, the Village Mother. 

The God Chance. 

The Greek God Nemesis, and Godfrey Cass. 

Some of George Eliot’s Teachings. 

George Eliot, a Maker of Apt Quotations. 

“A Little Child Shall Lead Them.” 

Dead and Living Gold. 

Mr. Macey, the Village Sage. 

“The Truth Lies a’tween You,”— Or, Mr. Snell a True Neutral. 
Priscilla, — A Free Lance. 

Nancy Lammeter, — A Lady of Nature’s Making. 

“A Blessing Turned Away,” or, Godfrey’s Nemesis. 

The Theme of Silas Marner. 

The Unity of Plot in Silas Marner. 

The Setting of Silas Marner. 











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